Blackbow
by Isabeau of Greenlea
Summary: The prequel to Captain My Captain. How Hethlin became a Ranger of Ithilien. Complete at last! Chapter Ten and Epilogue posted.
1. Chapter One

Author's Note--As this story progresses, readers of Captain My Captain may find that there are certain discrepencies. This is intentional, and somewhat unavoidable--in the more than a year's time since I started Captain, my writing style has changed (hopefully for the better!), and my perceptions about what happened to Hethlin have changed somewhat as well. It is my intention to go back and revise Captain once it is finished to bring both stories into agreement with each other. In most cases, there will be minor changes to details only, but when I started this story, I suddenly realized I had made a big mistake in Captain, which should become obvious in Chapter Two. See if you can catch it then.  
*****************  
May, 3015  
  
The Ithilien Rangers waited in the pre-dawn darkness, hunkered low in the scrub and brush between water's edge and the woods behind. Word had come from Cair Andros that large orc patrols had been crossing the River upon rafts, headed possibly into Anorien, and even perhaps down river to spy upon Minas Tirith itself. Such boldness did not please their Captain, for it told him that the Enemy was planning a major offensive, and in any event, did not fear the opposition as he should. And as the Captain was the opposition, he was inclined to take the incursion a bit personally. Now one such patrol was said to be heading back towards the Black Gate, and he intended to teach them proper respect.  
  
The occasional soft owl-hoot told him of the disposition of his men, scattered to either side of himself and his lieutenant. All was in readiness, there was naught to do but wait, and he moved slowly to ease a sudden cramp in his leg without making a rustle or other betraying sound. He knew that he was in the proper place, for one of his men had swum almost all the way across the River the previous evening, and spied out the thick patch of rushes wherein the orcs' rafts were tethered. They would try to cross the Anduin above Cair Andros, and go through the barren lands to the north and east of Ithilien proper, making their way to the Morannon.  
  
"Taking their time, aren't they?" Mablung whispered, lips right next to his ear. Faramir nodded, knowing the lieutenant could feel the movement. "Near dawn, Captain," he added. "Don't think they're coming today. Going to hole up on the other bank."  
  
"Bide a bit longer, Mablung," came the equally soft reply. "If they do not come, we'll go down to Cair and get clean." The lieutenant nodded in his turn. Faramir laid his head upon his folded arms and fought sleep. The sky began to lighten, and grow pink. Eventually, Anor peeked an orange rim above the horizon. Birdsong began. And across the River came a clot of shadow moved down the bank, something white in the midst of it. Foul, guttural voices echoed across the water. The orcs were unaware of the presence of the Rangers, or even they could have been quieter. There was splashing as they began push their rafts out into the water.  
  
"Tell the men to wait," Faramir commanded Mablung, still in a whisper. "We do not want to let the vermin to know that we are here till they are in the middle of the River." The lieutenant sent out the bird call that meant "wait", and a few moments later there were acknowledgments from either side. Faramir shifted, and checked that his bow was near to hand. He wondered why the orcs had chosen to move in the growing light--there was no real military presence in Anorien, so they were not being pursued by Gondorian troops. Perhaps it was simply that they had come this far and decided that it would be safer to den on the east bank of the River. If that were the case, he thought grimly, then they were soon going to find that they were mistaken.  
  
His stomach tightened into the familiar knot he always felt before combat, and he could sense the tension that lay over the waiting Rangers. The enemy's choosing to move in the growing light was a rare piece of luck for him. He had anticipated having to fight them hand to hand in the dark that they favored. Now, hopefully, this would be a shooting battle and they could kill most of the orcs on the River. That would certainly lessen the possibility of casualties. It took a long time to make a good Ranger, and Faramir was always careful of his mens' lives.  
  
The light began to grow, and disgruntled Black Speech echoed across the water as the orcs clumsily used both poles and oars in an effort to steer their unwieldy craft across the River without being caught by the current. Good boatmen they were not, Faramir thought grimly, but so much the better. He predicted they'd lose as many to the River as to his Rangers' arrows.  
  
He waited patiently, till they were somewhat past midstream with no chance of turning back. He wanted them close enough to be within reasonable bow range, but not so close that a large number would survive to come ashore in mass and attack his men hand-to-hand. Then he sounded the "attack" bird call himself. Arrows began to arc out of the Rangers' hiding places, falling in a hissing rain of death upon the rafts.  
  
Disgruntlement turned to panic, dismay and fury. As he had expected, a couple of orcs simply fell into the River, dragged down by the weight of their crude armor to drown without a sound. He could hear the voice of their captain, bellowing orders and threats. A couple of their own bowmen had the presence of mind to begin shooting back, but their crude short bows did not have the range of the Rangers' long bows, and the arrows fell harmlessly into the water. Mablung looked over at his captain, and grinned wickedly, before turning back to shoot once more. They had timed things perfectly, and it was going to be a slaughter.  
  
The orc captain realized this as well, and shouted new orders. The orcs started paddling in the opposite direction feverishly, but their numbers were being winnowed further every moment. The Rangers of Ithilien were the best bowmen in Gondor. As far as they were concerned, they were the best bowmen anywhere, and they shot as men who were convinced of that. As the deadly barrage continued, the orcs panicked. On the center raft, the one containing the white figure, there was a commotion, and a blur of white as whoever the person was was propelled into the river.  
  
"Poor wretch!" Mablung growled, never ceasing to shoot. He whistled a cautionary signal to the Rangers, that none of them might try some sort of foolhardy rescue. While he was sympathetic to the captive's plight, the odds were good that the orcs had slit their hostage's throat before throwing him away. Faramir gave him an approving nod, then loosed another arrow himself. The two men were realists, and saw no profit in risking live men to rescue a dead one.  
  
The orcs were now down to one in four of their original number, and the Rangers were shooting furiously, hoping to finish them off. Anborn, arguably the company's best archer, was standing in water over his knees, arcing his shots over the water, picking off the orcs that were in the farthest raft. That one eventually capsized, spilling its cargo into the middle of the river. Then it collided with the one behind it, and several more orcs fell into the water. Eventually, the rest were finished off as well. Not a single orc lived to reach the western bank, and not a single Ranger had received so much as a scratch. From Captain Faramir's viewpoint, the day was turning out to be fine indeed.  
  
Lowering his bow, Faramir shaded his eyes against the brightening morning light, and looked out over the River. He scanned the opposite bank for several moments, but could find nothing moving, then turned his attention to the River. Of the three orc rafts, two drifted upright, burdened with dead bodies, the other floated upside down. And the body of their hostage was still floating where the orcs, armored, had sunk, he could see the white of the shirt or garment the unfortunate had been wearing. He was just pondering whether it would be feasible to retrieve it for burial, or leave it for the detachment at Cair Andros to deal with (for they had boats) when he thought he saw a movement. Blinking in disbelief, he looked again--only to see first one arm, then another flail in a feeble attempt at swimming.  
  
"Valar, he's alive!" he exclaimed. Mablung, who had been checking amongst the Rangers for injuries, turned back to him.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Their hostage. They didn't slit his throat! He's alive!" Mablung looked in his turn, and whistled.   
  
"Who would have thought?" He looked back at his captain, to find that Faramir had already dropped his sword belt, and was unlacing his jerkin.  
  
"Captain, don't! There may be archers at the water's edge!" The jerkin was discarded, and the shirt pulled over his head.  
  
"Even if there are, their arrows won't reach so far. He's mid-river. Stop fussing, Mablung!" The shirt fell, and he sat to remove his boots and stockings. Rangers were gathering, murmuring with interest as they watched their captain.  
  
"I'll go get him, Captain. You shouldn't trouble yourself." The boots and stockings were discarded, and Faramir stood, clad only in breeches.  
  
"I've seen you swim, Mablung. I've no desire to pull two people out of the river." Ignoring his lieutenant's offended glare, he took five swift strides towards the water's edge, and launched himself in a graceful, flat dive. He hit the water, and without a moment's pause, began to stroke strongly towards the victim, who was starting to drift downstream.   
  
Summers spent as a boy at Dol Amroth, diving from low cliffs and braving the sea with its sometimes treacherous undertows, made the Anduin seem tame as a duck pond in comparison. He liked to swim, and he was good at it; the one physical feat that even his peerless athlete brother Boromir had to admit his superiority in. Though his concern for the hostage drove him on, he was enjoying the feeling of stroking easily through the water.  
  
The Anduin was broad here, it took more time than he would have liked to reach the hostage, even being the strong swimmer that he was, and when he was nearly there he saw an arm thrown up and the victim go under at last. He sucked in a breath, and swiftly dove, seeking with squinted eyes for the figure sinking beneath the sunshot green water. Not too far under, he found it, the pale arms still trying to claw feebly for the surface. But even as he finally seized one of the wriggling limbs and kicked upward, its struggles ceased. He prayed that he was not too late.  
  
Breaking the surface of the water, he hauled the victim's head up and wrapped a arm under its arms. The distinctive feel of a pair of small breasts startled him, and he looked down at the pale face. The black hair which surrounded it was only shoulder length, and that was what had made him think she was a lad upon his first dim viewing of her. Water was trickling out of her nose, and after a moment she began to choke and cough, to his great relief. He could hear the cheers of his men, for they had discerned that he had been successful in retrieving her. One-handed he began to stroke for shore, not worrying about the current carrying him downstream a bit, for he knew that the Rangers would meet him, and indeed, they were following him down the bank.  
  
There was no resistance from the girl, which was something of a comfort, for it made his job easier, but it was also a matter for some concern. Her head lolled against him too limply for reassurance. When he reached waist-deep water and stood, he had to bend over and lift her up, for her eyes remained closed and she made no effort to rise upon her own. She was a tall, lanky girl, and he staggered a bit as he waded to shore. Setting her down upon a patch of grass well away from the water's edge, he finally took a good look at what it was he had drawn from the water, and swallowed hard.  
  
She was a lass of about fifteen or sixteen summers, boyish and with a touch of the hawk to her nose. The white garment he had seen was a shirt, that much shredded and soiled, came barely to the tops of her thighs. She wore no other clothing, and her body was plainly visible beneath the soaked, clinging fabric. From her neck to her knees she was welted and torn with the marks of lash, claw and teeth. Some of the wounds were old, and scabbed, other more recent injuries still seeped blood slowly. Most of them were fairly deep and serious, and undoubtedly befouled. He laid a gentle hand upon her brow, and found it hot. She coughed and choked and even unconscious as she was, tried to twist away from his touch.  
  
The Rangers about him murmured, not in prurience at the sight of a naked woman, but in pity at the sight of the harm done to her. He looked about for his lieutenant.  
"Mablung?" Called forward, Mablung knelt on her other side, surveyed the injuries, and felt her forehead even as he had. He frowned.  
  
"I don't know, sir. She's in a bad way. She needs the Houses of Healing, but I don't think she'd survive the journey there. There's a lot of stitching to be done and I'll warrant most of these wounds are poisoned." He grimaced, and gestured towards the juncture of her thighs. "I suspect those foul things had their way with her as well. She may be injured inside. It doesn't look good and that's a fact. She needs a proper healer."  
  
Faramir frowned, the little line between his brows deepening. "Unfortunately, we do not have a proper healer, Mablung. She'll have to make do with you and I. We will rig a litter, and start back to Henneth-Annun. She's in your charge, do what you can for her."   
  
Mablung nodded unhappily, and began to bark orders. Rangers scurried to chop a couple of saplings and build the litter. Damrod unfastened his cloak of muted browns and greens and draped it carefully over the battered girl. It was certainly not the first time they had had to transport wounded after a skirmish, and they knew the way of it well enough. Before long, they were moving up the trail to Henneth-Annun, the girl borne in their midst, covered and padded with other donated cloaks.  
  
It was well past dark when they reached their refuge, and the patrol, who had marched for over ten hours with only one break midday, were very weary. Greeted by their fellow Rangers who had been left behind, they were quick to speak of their victory of the morning, and their new house-guest. Curious glances followed the girl, as the Captain and his lieutenant ensconced her in the curtained recess that served as his private chamber.  
  
They had managed to dribble small amounts of water into her at intervals throughout the day, but she had never truly regained consciousness. Now Mablung stripped the rags from her, and Faramir bathed her with a tincture of herbs the Rangers kept on hand to cleanse wounds and prevent infection.  
  
"I could really use a fire, Captain," Mablung grumbled, and Faramir sighed.  
  
"I know, but it is not possible. Do the best you can." The lieutenant brought his medical supplies over, and threaded a needle.  
  
"You be ready to hold her, sir." Faramir nodded, but the precaution turned out to be unnecessary. Aside from some moans in the beginning, the girl was too weak and fevered to put up a struggle. She lapsed more deeply into unconsciousness, and Mablung was able to stitch the worst of the wounds without trouble. He gave his Captain a grim look when he had finished. "I'm going to be another hour or more, poulticing and bandaging all of this. You go get some sleep. I'll get someone to watch her for a while when I am done." Faramir nodded, and Mablung continued.  
  
"Captain, if she is going to have any chance at all, there are things I need from the City. Medicines and such. More than what we usually keep on hand--she's wounded enough for two or three men. Some of it I could find and make out here, but not without fire and proper equipment, and we don't have any of that. I need to be able to make warm broth, and suchlike as well."  
  
"There's my teapot, the one with the little oil lamp," the Ranger captain said. "Would that help?" Mablung considered for a moment.  
  
"Aye, it would. I could put a bit of dried meat in it, and steep it, but it will be slow going. If I had a couple more of those, and the oil for them, I might be able to make do. Keep 'em going all at once, doing different things. Hot water, tea, broth." Faramir stood and rubbed his temple wearily.  
  
"I had almost finished my monthly report to Father. I'll just do that now, and send Lorend and Taymen to the City tomorrow to deliver it, and to get the things you need. Make me a list--everything you can think of. I'll just say it's required for the garrison, so don't hold back. And I'll give Lorend some of my own coin, so that if the quartermasters object, he can obtain whatever else is needed himself." Lorend was a merchant's son, born and bred, and while he was a good Ranger, he was a better procurer--providing one didn't ask too many questions about how he procured..... "Can you make do until then?" Mablung nodded.  
  
"I will have to, won't I? Though if you send the hunting party out tomorrow, and they catch and cook away from here like they usually do, let me talk to them first, and see if they'll make me some fresh broth out there. We have some clean bottles they could put it in, and I could keep it in the pool for a day or two at least. Then I could just heat it up." Faramir nodded.  
  
"That's a good idea. If you don't mind seeing to it." He yawned, and Mablung frowned.  
  
"Get some sleep, Captain!"  
  
"After I finish the report. See that you do the same, lieutenant." Mablung shrugged.  
  
"Don't you worry about me. I'll seek my bed fast enough when I have the chance." Faramir had his doubts about that, but said nothing. He was not surprised, however, when he awoke the next day in the bedroll he'd laid on the floor to find Mablung snoring gently in his chair beside the girl.  
That morning, Lorend and Taymen departed for Minas Tirith.  
  
"Receipts, Lorend," his Captain told him sternly, as he handed the purse over. The young man tried to look guileless and innocent. He was not entirely successful.  
  
"Really, Captain! You act as if you expect Taymen and I to drink or gamble your coin away when we reach Tirith! Don't you trust us?" Taymen gave his commander a beseeching look, as if to disassociate himself from Lorend's possible treachery. Faramir smiled wryly.  
  
"Of course I do--when I have reasonable precautions in place! So bring me receipts!"  
  
"We're going to need a pack-horse for this stuff, and people waiting to pack it back here," Lorend commented. "I'm not carrying it all on my back."  
  
"I have written you a note for the Cair commander, so that you may take an extra courier horse," Faramir said in a mild tone, giving the scrap of paper and the reports to him. "And there will be a patrol waiting for you upon your return. Which would be all the sooner if you would stop voicing objections and protests, and simply set off. Now." The last word cracked with command, and Lorend, knowing well the limits of his lord's patience, left hurriedly, Taymen in tow.  
  
"Born to be hanged, that one," commented Mablung, coming out of the back chamber yawning and stretching.  
  
"I'll wager being shot or skewered by an irate father is a more likely outcome," his captain replied. Mablung gave him an interested look.  
  
"How much?"  
  
"Get some breakfast, Mablung," Faramir said dismissively. "I'll sit with the girl." The lieutenant nodded, and moved over to where the trestles were laid, helping himself to bread and butter and honey, and some ale.   
  
Faramir went back into the alcove, and looked down upon their patient. Pale morning light was trickling through the waterfall, and a little penetrated even that far back in the cave. For some reason, it seemed to frighten the girl, who thrashed and moaned, her eyes glassy and unseeing. He sat down beside the bed and laid a gentle hand upon her forehead, but his touch, instead of soothing, seemed to upset her even more. She cried out, and began to struggle in earnest, calming only when he took his hand away. Breakfasting Rangers looked curiously towards them, and he wondered briefly if he were mad, bringing a sick girl into his secret headquarters. His father would have certainly thought so. Caring for her properly would be difficult at best.  
  
But the alternatives, to have let the Anduin take her, or to have finished her himself, were not within his nature to do. So he took up the rag that was draped over the wash basin, dipped it in the water, and began to bathe her hot, sweaty face. That seemed to calm her somewhat, and he looked down upon her with a rueful smile.  
  
"We are bound together for a time, lass," he murmured, "and the Valar know where this will lead any of us."  
The girl's fever burned almost continuously for the next ten days. Lorend and Taymen returned with their supplies, and the back alcove became a small hospital. Mablung was freed of his other duties to see to the girl, and Faramir would spell him a bit when he came in from patrol. To keep her clean, and dry and warm was a horrendous effort, though not impossible as it would have been in winter, and the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers began to feel weary to his very bones. His other lieutenants, Damrod and Anborn would also sit with her, though they had no nursing ability to speak of. By unspoken agreement, only the officers tended the girl--Faramir had faith in his ability to command his men, and in their good natures, but also the wisdom not to put them into tempting situations. Not that the girl was particularly tempting in her current condition.   
  
The rank-and-file Rangers watched the drama being played out with interest--patrols coming in would inquire about her status as soon as they made it into the cave. And the men contributed to the effort as well--laundry for the girl was done uncomplainingly, and it was a rare hunting/cooking party that did not bring broth back for her. There were some wagers being made about how long it would take Mablung to get her back upon her feet, but none being made about the possibility of her death that Faramir had heard of. Not that that surprised him. No superstitious soldier (and almost all soldiers were superstitious by virtue of their profession) would draw fate's attention to himself in such a way.  
  
So the girl was, he supposed, actually useful despite her helplessness--she gave men who had had to live too close to each other for too long something to talk and think about. And she reminded them, who all had mothers, wives, sisters or girl-children themselves, exactly what they were fighting for.  
  
He did wonder, however, as the days passed, and the flesh seemed to fall away from her bones, if he were not truly saving her, but instead condemning her to a slow and ugly death. Some of her wounds festered, and had to be opened, cleaned and restitched. She had apparently been injured inside from the orcs' usage of her as well, and that area had to be tended as well. Mablung was tireless in his care of the girl, and Faramir aided him as best he could, but he knew that if she survived, the lieutenant would be the one truly responsible for it.  
  
But the day finally came, past the point when many of the men had given up hope, and even Faramir had begun to despair, when she awoke with a cool brow and clear eyes. A sadder specimen of womankind he had never seen, her face naught but pale skin stretched drum-taut over bone, her body wasted till she resembled a very long, skinny child, and he knew that even if the fever were vanquished, she would be a very long time coming back to herself.  
  
That that was true in more ways than one soon became apparent. She would eat or drink anything set before her without complaint, and she would not struggle when the cause of cleanliness caused them to handle her in ways that were both intimate and embarrassing, though she would tense, and her eyes redden, though no tears actually ever fell. But sudden movements or noises startled her badly, and though she muttered and murmured and cried out in her sleep, never a word did she speak when awake. She knew her saviors--Mablung and Faramir himself she would tolerate about her, but she shrank under the covers when anyone but the two of them approached.  
  
Faramir had listened carefully to her troubled dreaming, hoping to piece together some information about her origins. From what he was able to tell, she had had a mother, a father, and a brother and sister. The fate of her siblings seemed to be what tormented her the most out of all the horror that had happened to her--they had apparently been killed before her very eyes. Her terror at the coming of morning was consistent but baffling--until the explanation occurred to him suddenly one evening when he sat tiredly over his supper watching Mablung tuck her into bed after cleaning her wounds. Her eyes closed swiftly, and she dropped into sleep with a shocking suddenness.  
  
"She sleeps so easily now that you would think she would not be so troubled at the advent of dawn," he commented, then took another bite of his dried meat, chewing it with the vigorous effort that was required. Mablung grunted noncommittally, then gave her hand a last, fatherly pat where it lay outside the coverlet before rising to seek his own supper.  
  
"Maybe that's when what happened to her family happened, Captain," he suggested, "and that's why she gets upset." Faramir frowned thoughtfully.  
  
"Possibly. But it seems very late for them to be attacking a farmstead--orcs are usually seeking cover by then....." His eyes widened suddenly. "Of course! That's it, Mablung!"  
  
Mablung paused in the doorway. "What's that, sir?"  
  
"Morning's when they lair up for the day. We do not know how long she was with them, but I will wager that they traveled all night, and when morning came, went to ground, ate their supper--and then had their way with her. That's why she fears the dawn!" He realized that he was gesturing with his piece of meat in his excitement, and lowered his hand. Mablung considered this for a moment.  
  
"That makes a deal of sense, sir. But I still think my answer is possible too." And with that, he left to get his food. Faramir finished his meat, and bread, drank some ale, then went to get one of the books he'd retrieved on his last visit to Minas Tirith. The possibility of refreshing his reading material was the only thing these days that made visits home bearable--unless Boromir were there too, or Uncle Imrahil. He returned, the volume in hand, and opened it. Upon impulse, he began to softly read one of the lays in the book, which was in Elvish, aloud to the sleeping girl on the bed. She did not react in any way, except to turn over upon her side, and murmur something indistinguishable, and when he had done, he sought his own bedroll, feeling rather foolish. But for the first time, she slept peacefully the whole night through, and did not wake till well after dawn.  
*******************  
  
July, 3015  
  
Faramir strode wearily into Henneth-Annun, running a hand through his hair, and looking forward to the noon meal. He and his patrol had just finished a two-day loop down the Harad road, through the forest to the Anduin, and back up the stream the waterfall fed to their sanctuary. They had encountered nothing, and had pressed the pace and returned a couple of hours early, so though he was tired, he was also satisfied with a job well done.  
  
Through long habit, he cast an appraising eye about the cavern as he entered, noting that everything was in order, and that the few men who had remained behind were busy with the tasks that needed doing. The box of damaged arrows that needed fletching had all been repaired he was pleased to see, and indeed, the men from the patrol were already using them to replace damaged or missing arrows in their quivers.  
  
He looked about for the girl, but did not see her, and frowned slightly. Though she was finally able to get about and feed herself and keep herself clean, she now presented problems of another kind entirely. She still had yet to utter a word, still flinched if someone moved too quickly around her, and still watched everyone and everything as if in fear of her life. From time to time, she continued to suffer fevers as well, though they were usually only a day or two in duration, and did not debilitate her unduly.   
  
She was certainly an odd creature. Among the things he had sent to Minas Tirith for had been a couple of skirts and changes of clothing for a young woman. She had refused to wear them, alternating the two pairs of breeches they'd first given her instead. Mablung had eventually sighed, taken the skirts apart, and begun making them into more breeches and a tunic to match. His tailoring skills made him the butt of many jokes--until he reminded his fellow Rangers that he was the one who sewed them up more often than not, and that he might be inspired to do decorative stitches upon any jokers the next time they were injured. The brother of five sisters, he had also done something about supplying her with the necessities for certain womanly issues should the need arise, which had gained him the undying gratitude of his captain. Faramir knew nothing of such things, and preferred to keep it that way.  
  
Now, it seemed, the day of decision regarding her was close at hand. She was almost strong enough to make the trip to Minas Tirith, and as soon as she was, he knew that he should send her. She was taking up his best lieutenant's time, and their limited resources in a way he knew his father would never have tolerated, had he knowledge of it. He could almost envision the Lord Denethor's reaction--"Faramir, you are being soft and sentimental. There are places that care for waifs and madwomen--set her in one of those and get back to what is your primary responsibility--the defense of this kingdom."  
  
There was some truth to that. But the problem was, he had once visited one of the places where they cared for those whose illnesses were of the mind. From what he could recollect of that visit, there had been little actual healing going on--the main purpose seemed to have been to keep the mad out of sight and mind of the sane. And though she had been mute thus far, Faramir did not think her mad. Too often he had caught the look of perfect comprehension in her gray eyes as she followed conversations. He knew that it would have been kinder to kill her than to put her in such a cage, and since he had not killed her, she was his responsibility.  
  
He was beginning to think that the wisest course of action would be to send her to his uncle in Dol Amroth, though that would mean she would be far removed from any possible kin who could claim her. Prince Imrahil had been known to take in a stray or two in his time, and would have gladly done such a favor for his beloved nephew. Faramir had no doubt that, if he could but find a way to send her there, he would check back in six months or a year and find her much improved--his uncle was a wise man, and would probably know better than he how to handle her. But the problem was how to get her across the whole length of Gondor safely, and preferably without his father knowing......  
  
"Anborn," he greeted the lieutenant left in charge, "anything to report?"  
  
"Nay, milord," said Anborn, putting a polish upon a new bow. Faramir knew better than to wait about for anything further--Anborn was a man of few words upon every subject but archery.  
  
"Thank you for seeing to that fletching, by the way."  
  
"Didn't do it, milord."  
  
"Who did? Meris?"  
  
"Nay, Captain."  
  
"Who then?" He ran through his mind the list of men that were good fletchers and found most of them out upon patrol. Anborn did not waste further words, but merely pointed a finger towards the back alcove. It took a moment to realize what he meant.  
  
"The girl?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
Dismayed, Faramir immediately went to the box, picked up four of the arrows and examined them closely. To his surprise, they were definitely up to Ranger standard, and shafts he would have shot from his own bow with confidence. He returned to Anborn.  
"How did you discover she knew how to do it?" The lieutenant sighed, realizing that he was going to have to have a conversation whether he liked it or not.  
  
"I was stripping the old fletches off the arrows. She looked like she was wanting something to do, so I motioned her over. She did that part right well, didn't damage a shaft. I asked her if she knew what to do next. You know how she is--doesn't say anything or even nod, but something in her eyes seemed to say yes, so I let her try. She did know what to do next, so I let her do it." Faramir wondered if the girl would ever know what a rare compliment that was--Anborn only shot arrows that he had fletched himself. Then he stifled a grin at the phenomena of the lieutenant commenting about anyone else's taciturnity.  
  
"I see. Where is she now?" Anborn shrugged.  
  
"She washed up a while ago, and went to the back. Might be napping." Anborn bent over his bow once more, and Faramir realized, much to his amusement, that he was being dismissed. Thinking (not for the first time) that it was a good thing he was in command of the Rangers and not his brother Boromir, who was of a more traditionally authoritative mindset where military discipline was concerned, he moved towards the alcove that had been his alone until a couple of months ago, and peered through the curtain.  
  
The nameless waif was sitting at his desk, on his stool, burning one of his candles, and looking at one of his books. Faramir frowned slightly. He was not a hoarder of possessions by nature, but he was rather protective of his reading material. Although Anborn had said that the girl had washed her hands first....... He cleared his throat, and when she leapt up, startled, entered the room. The book was clasped to her breast, and when she saw him look at it, her face grew very pale, and her eyes wide. She proffered it to him hesitantly, shrinking back when he took it.  
  
He did notice that at least she'd had it right side up......Flipping it open, he was surprised to find that it was an historical account of his forebears. Fairly dry going, and not much in the way of pictures or decoration. With a tingle of excitement, he wondered if it were possible that she could actually read?  
  
"What were you doing with this?" he demanded aloud firmly, but not so fiercely as to make her flee. She cast her eyes down, and pressed back against the rock wall. "You cannot expect me to believe that you were actually reading it." It was then that he saw what he'd never seen before--a hint that her spirit was not broken. Ire flared in her grey eyes, her jaw tightened, and she lifted her head to actually glare at him. He wanted to shout with glee; instead, he made his voice as condescending as possible.  
  
"You will have to prove it to me." He opened the book, and his finger darted out and marked a passage at random. He handed it back to her. "Begin there." She looked at where his finger indicated for a moment, then closed the book and looked up at him sidelong with some fear. Faramir sighed.  
  
"I'm not going to hurt you, girl. I don't know why you cannot or will not talk to us. I need to find out where you came from, if you have kin who will claim you. I cannot keep you here, and I do not believe you would care much for the sort of place to which my father would send you. Can you not trust me, and try to speak?" Something flickered behind her eyes, and he felt a tiny bit of excitement, which faded the next minute as her head bowed, and she leaned back against the wall, still clutching the book.  
  
"Anborn tells me you washed your hands before you came back here and handled the books," he continued softly. "If you always do that first, then you may look at them as often as you like." He hoped that would elicit some sort of response, but the girl merely wrapped her arms more tightly about the book. He watched her for a moment, then sighed and left the alcove.  
When Mablung returned from his own patrol a day later, his captain summoned him to the alcove to confer. He sat, drank his ale and ate his supper as Faramir told him of the latest developments in the story of their mystery waif.  
  
"We seem to be at an impasse here," the captain finished a bit glumly. "The girl cannot speak, and in all the time we've listened to her, we have no names to go with the story we have deduced from her nighttime murmurings. She cannot stay here, and if I send her to Minas Tirith, she will undoubtedly end up in a madhouse, or some other wretched place. My uncle would care for her kindly, but then she would be the whole length of Gondor away from any possible family who might claim her."  
  
"She might be better off with your uncle than her family in any event, my lord," the lieutenant commented thoughtfully. "He has the means to actually have physicians attend her, and he's not some superstitious farmer, to lock her in an attic or cellar." Faramir nodded agreement.  
  
"You make a very valid point, Mablung. But I cannot determine whether her kin are superstitious farmers or not, unless I can discover who they are." The lieutenant took a deep drink of his ale.  
  
"Well, if we cannot make her talk, then we must find someone else who can talk about her. And that means sending someone into Anorien, and searching for where she came from. Have you a map handy?" Faramir nodded, and went to the cubbyholed cabinet wherein he kept them. Returning, he unrolled and spread it out over his desk, weighing the curling edges down with books. Mablung leaned over for a closer look, but was careful to keep his bread and cheese away from it. "Cair Andros said they thought the same party of orcs had crossed the Anduin ten days previously. What is the farthest they could have gone, and returned in time for us to kill them?"  
  
Faramir opened the drawer on his desk, and pulled out one of his most sophisticated strategical tools--a string marked in leagues and tens of leagues. Pinning one end with a finger to the spot where the orcs had attempted to re-cross the Anduin, he pinched it at the point he felt indicated a plausible distance, swept it in an arc from that point and frowned. Mablung whistled.  
  
"That's a lot of ground to cover, Captain. Her people could be anywhere within that area."  
  
"I agree. And we don't have the resources to search that. I guess we'll just have to hope that she will become more talkative--very soon." The lieutenant, his expression suddenly thoughtful, traced the line of the Great West Road with a callused fingertip.  
  
"There might be another way, sir." His finger marked a spot on the map. "If I recollect, there's a sort of inn and store right about here--parallel with Min-rimmon. If she lived anywhere within the area, her family might very well trade there. It might be worth it to send a couple of men on courier horses to ask about her. A lot less resources expended, and as good a way as any, I deem, to find out." Faramir gave him an approving look.  
  
"That might indeed be a way to get some information, Mablung! A good idea indeed. But it's near fifty leagues." The lieutenant shrugged.  
  
"Going there and back on horses will be a lot less time spent than trying to comb even a small part of that area with a patrol on foot. Let me go, sir, and I'll take Lorend with me. You'll have peace and quiet for a week!"  
  
"You do make it sound almost irresistible," Faramir replied dryly. "Very well then--you'll set out tomorrow. I'll do my best to look after her until you return. Unless you would like to rest for a day, and then set out." Mablung shook his head.  
  
"I'll be all right sir. Besides, it's riding, not walking. Different muscles altogether. And I don't want to waste any more time. If we can find out something about her, then maybe we'll be able to help her." Faramir nodded.  
  
"And help ourselves in the process. Very well then, Mablung-- go get some rest. I'll give you a stipend for expenses tomorrow." The lieutenant nodded and departed, and when he had gone, Faramir rolled up the map and carefully stowed it away. He sat for a long time after that, staring unseeing at one of his favorite books and pondering possibilities, until he finally gave up and sought his own bed. 


	2. Chapter Two

Author's Note--As to the big problem in Captain--Heth claims she doesn't know if her family have been properly laid to rest, and there is mention a couple of times as to whether the Rangers went to the right farmstead or not, while all the time she is carrying her father's sword that Mablung had brought to her. Sigh.  
  
Thanks to E.W. for an alternative possibility, which I put forth in this chapter, and will edit Captain to match in the future. She has also been most helpful once more as a medical consultant.  
  
******************  
  
August, 3015--Eight days later, Mablung and Lorend huffed their way up the trail to Henneth-Annun, the lieutenant carrying a long, narrow, fabric-swathed object on his back that might have been another sword besides the one he wore at his hip. They arrived at the refuge just as the sun was setting, and the Rangers were sitting down to meat. Waiting quietly in the entrance to the cavern until the Standing Silence was done, Mablung and Lorend went forward to greet their captain as a cheerful hum of voices and clatter of plates and cups arose.  
  
"Did you find out anything?" Faramir asked curiously, taking a long drink of cider from his plain silver cup.  
  
"Yes, my lord!" Lorend exclaimed before Mablung could say anything, walking towards the alcove. "We found out everything! Is she back there?"  
  
"Isn't she always?" sighed the Captain. Mablung, a concerned look on his face, murmured, "Lorend, I don't think you should--"  
  
"Watch this, Captain!" Henneth-Annun's irrepressible black sheep called over his shoulder. "Hey--Hethlin, are you in there?" Heads swiveled with interest along the trestle table. "Hethlin is her name, Captain," Lorend explained quickly, before calling said name out twice more.  
  
There was a moment's pause, then the girl pulled the curtain back and stepped into the main room, a shocked expression on her face. Lorend rushed forward and seized her by the upper arms.  
  
"Hethlin, that is your name, isn't it? We talked to people who--urk!"  
  
"Lorend!" snapped Faramir in warning, leaping to his feet, but he was too late. He expected, if anything, that the Ranger's sudden effusive rush would panic the girl, cause her to flee back into the alcove, and totally undo what little confidence and trust they had begun to build with her. What he had not thought would happen was that her face would suddenly go blank, her right hand shoot out swiftly for his swordhilt, her right foot hook behind his leg, and that she would neatly trip him up. His descent to the cavern floor served to pull his sword free of its scabbard, and the next thing Lorend knew, he was lying upon the ground looking up his own blade, the point of which was hovering threateningly at his throat, while the girl's foot was planted firmly upon his groin. Quite understandably, Lorend squirmed, and the sword moved closer to his throat.  
  
"Don't move, Lorend," Mablung cautioned rather unnecessarily. A silence fell over the cavern. Faramir took one slow step towards them, then another, surveying the situation and cursing himself for never considering that his little charity project might be actually be dangerous. Her stance was not that of a girl who'd gotten her hands upon a sword for the first time in a sticky situation--she held the blade correctly, and with confidence, and it did not waver. Somehow, somewhere she had been trained at least a little in the art of swordplay.  
  
Her face was calm, dispassionate as she surveyed Lorend, and that worried him the most, for he was not certain that she was even really in the here and now at all. The situation was getting out of control, and he needed to take command of it immediately.  
  
"Hethlin," Faramir said as calmly as he could while still keeping the ring of authority in his voice, "we do not draw blades within these walls, and certainly never upon each other. Put up the sword."  
  
The girl's head gave an odd little twitch, but she did not move otherwise-- to either threaten or release. Lorend, still as stone and trying to even breathe quietly, gave his commander a desperate, imploring look.  
  
"Put up the sword, I said!" the Captain snapped, and this time Hethlin turned her head to look at him. "Now!"  
  
Gradually, the blank expression left her face, to be replaced by a worried look and furrowed brow. She stared at him, and then down at Lorend, and after a frighteningly long pause, extended her hand rather stiffly out to the side and dropped the blade, which clanged with shocking loudness on the stone floor of the cavern. Stepping back, she freed the Ranger to scrabble swiftly out of her reach, then looked once more at Faramir. Her mouth worked, and for a moment, he thought she might actually try to talk. But no sound came out, and she scowled ferociously, turned upon her heel and walked back to the alcove.  
  
He followed her at a little distance, hearing the hum of uneasy, excited conversation from the men behind him as they converged upon Lorend.  
  
"Did you leave a puddle on the floor, lad?" "For someone who is good with the girls, you were pretty slow just now!" "Can't fault her aim at least as far as the foot goes!" and other similar comments filled the cavern. Mablung followed his captain, and they both entered the alcove to find the girl in the farthest corner, her face pressed to the rough stone, slamming her fist into it repeatedly with a force that made Faramir wince. He went forward and grasped her wrist, stilling it against the stone, being careful to stand to the side so that she would not feel trapped. The knuckles were already scraped and bloody.  
  
"There now," he soothed, wondering what he had truly gotten himself into. The madhouse was looking more and more like a distinct possibility. "You don't want to do that. You will hurt yourself. Lorend would not have harmed you, and I am sure he didn't mean to frighten you."  
  
To his great surprise, she turned suddenly and tucked her head beneath his chin, pressing her body against him. It was the first time she had initiated any sort of physical contact. He gave Mablung a startled look over her head, and the lieutenant shrugged. Then he slowly and carefully put his arms around her. A faint tremor was running through her frame.  
  
"Is your name truly Hethlin?" he asked softly after a moment, not expecting any response, but to his amazement, she slowly nodded.  
  
"Did you mean to hurt Lorend?" A definite shake of the head. "He simply startled you, didn't he?" Another nod. With a thrill, Faramir realized that after three months, they were finally communicating.  
  
"Hethlin, I've been to Min-rimmon," Mablung said quietly. "They said your father's name was Halaran, and your mother's Liranael. Is that true?" Another nod. "And you had a little brother and sister?" Another nod, and the tremors increased. "The orcs we ambushed killed your family, didn't they?" Yet another nod, and she started trembling in truth. Faramir gave the lieutenant a warning look, but he pressed on.  
  
"The folk who run the inn at Min-rimmon said to tell you that Berrill and his sons went to your farm and said the words over your folk and laid them to rest. And that he found this there, and brought it back, in case any of your other kin should show up. When I told them that you were alive, they gave it to me." Mablung shrugged his strange burden off of his back, and began to unwrap it. Faramir saw that it was in fact a sword, plain-hilted in an unadorned scabbard. There seemed to be nothing particularly special about it, but when the girl saw it, she made an inarticulate cry, turned in his arms, and reached for it. Mablung took a step back.  
  
"I am going to let the Captain keep this for you for now, until you are feeling better." Hethlin made another noise, this one clearly of protest, but the lieutenant was adamant. "We have rules here, lass, and we need to know that you can follow them before we trust you with a blade. The first, and most important, is what the Captain said--we don't hurt each other. You want to carry a blade here, you have to earn it."   
  
The girl stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed, then nodded in a fierce, abrupt fashion, tore herself out of Faramir's arms, and went into the other corner, behind the desk, where she sank to the floor, drew her legs up, wrapped her arms around them, bowed her head and began to cry, much to the Captain's amazement. Other than the tears she had wept when touched early on, she had never before expressed any grief at all when awake. Faramir thought that this might be a hopeful sign, and almost went to her, but his lieutenant stayed him with a hand upon his arm.  
  
"Perhaps we should leave her alone for a bit, sir. I need to talk to you in any event." The Captain nodded, and they went back out into the cavern, out of earshot of the alcove, but also as far away from the tables as possible. Mablung bent his head close to Faramir's.  
  
"You know a lot about lore and such, my lord. I wanted you to see this." He drew the girl's legacy from its scabbard, and handed it to his captain.  
  
Faramir took the sword by the hilt, lifted it, looked at the way the light ran down the blade, and his eyebrow raised at the watery, almost blue patterns in the steel. There was a device graven in the blade near the hilt--an eagle with wings upstretched, arching protectively around a six-pointed star. It was the only ornamentation upon the weapon, but the Ranger captain swung the sword experimentally, felt the exquisite balance of it, and knew that in this case, appearances were deceiving. It was a much finer blade than the one that hung at his side, and possibly even better than the heirloom of their house his brother carried.  
  
"I thought it looked old," Mablung commented, and Faramir nodded.  
  
"I've only seen one other like it--the patina on the hilt, the pattern in the blade. It puts me in mind of Swansong, my uncle of Dol Amroth's blade. That sword is reputed to have been forged in Numenor itself. It baffles me how a farmer in Anorien should come to have such a weapon--and why the orcs did not take it with the rest of the plunder."  
  
The lieutenant shrugged. "The orcs may have sensed something about it--I've heard they don't much like things from the old days. As for the girl's father being a farmer--the inn-folk said that he and his wife were from the North--the far North. Arnor in fact." At Faramir's surprised look, he expounded further.  
  
"They said that Halaran claimed to be a Ranger, and of a certainty, he was a warrior. Whenever they had problems with bandits or such, they would get together and he would lead them. According to Merelan, the inn-keep, about eight years ago, they even sent the man to Tirith, to ask aid of your father--apparently they had a major incursion of brigands, more than they thought they could handle. But the Steward said he didn't have the men to spare, so this Halaran fellow went home, got everyone together and planned some sort of really clever ambush or something. In any event, they dealt with it, though a couple of them were killed. He was well thought of there--they were much dismayed to find out he'd been slain."  
  
Faramir frowned thoughtfully for a moment, for Mablung's explanation had triggered a memory.  
  
"Do you know, I think I remember Boromir saying something about that very matter? I had gone into the City for a week's leave, and to make my report to the Council. I could tell he was wroth about something, and we went out the evening of my return for a drink and to talk."  
  
"'Is it part of Gondor or is it not?' he asked me at one point, after telling me of the Sun-landers' request. 'Shall we just tell Theoden to take Anorien as well? Are we so diminished that we cannot defend our own people when they have need, scarce fifty leagues from the City?'" He had wanted to lead a patrol into the area, but Father forbade it. I noted it because it was one of the few times I'd ever seen Boromir and Father truly at odds." He gave the sword back to Mablung. "I could have passed Hethlin's father in the halls of the Tower, and never have known it."  
  
"Life is peculiar that way," the lieutenant agreed, sheathing it. "Speaking of your brother, Captain, it's past time for the Captain General to show up for his quarterly inspection. He could be here any time now. What do you want to do about the girl?" Faramir groaned softly.  
  
"You're right, Mablung. I suppose we've been fortunate he hasn't come before now, not that it isn't always good to see him." He hooked his thumbs in his belt and stared down at the rough stone floor of the cavern, considering. He did not care to deceive his brother, but he was unsure of how Boromir would react. He might be sympathetic and agree to help Faramir send the girl to their Uncle Imrahil, or he might stand upon military protocol and insist upon packing her off to Minas Tirith at once. A great deal depended upon how bad the incursions had been down by Osgiliath, and how much pressure their father had been putting upon him of late. Ashamed at the flood of relief that came over him at the possibility of being relieved of his problem child, Faramir then cringed mentally at the thought of Hethlin being dragged away by the more unsympathetic hands of the regular army, and being placed willy-nilly into one of those establishments for the feeble-minded, just when they were starting to make some progress with her.  
  
The lieutenant waited patiently, silently, as he worked it through. "Mablung," he said finally, "I would appreciate it if you would take the girl a little way from the refuge when my brother comes, and keep her there until he leaves. The weather is warm, and she has not been sick for a long time. She should be well enough." Mablung gave him a searching look.  
  
"Are you sure that's what you want to do, Captain?" Faramir nodded. "Very well then, sir--the two of us will go camping a little way away, within the sentry lines. We'll take a couple of bows, do some target practice--see if she can shoot as well as fletch."  
  
"Is it wise to trust her with a bow, Mablung?" the Captain asked with concern. Mablung shrugged.  
  
"She put up when you told her to. I think it will be all right. She may not even know how to use one." The two of them looked at each other for a moment, both thinking how unlikely that was . "We'll be camped upstream. Keep your brother away from there."  
  
"Very well," Faramir replied. "Thank you, Mablung." He turned away to return to his supper. Fortunately, as it had been cold to start with, it was not much harmed by the various delays.  
  
"Captain?" Mablung asked quietly. Faramir turned back to him. "I couldn't say while you were making up your mind, but I'm glad you decided not to give her to him. I didn't want to send her away either." He got a rueful smile in response, and a command to come and get his dinner before the trestles were cleared away.  
"Come on then, lass," Mablung said softly, handing Hethlin one of the masks and cloaks that the Rangers used, as well as an arm brace and shooting glove. She slipped the items on quite deftly, looking, the lieutenant thought, entirely too pleased with developments. Stepping to the bow rack, she took up the bow that had belonged to a young twenty-year-old man from Lossarnach, who had died upon his first patrol, and gave Mablung an inquiring look. At his nod, she helped herself to the quiver as well, and filled it with arrows from the fletching box, swiftly choosing a dozen of the best ones. She was able to adjust the quiver and the cloak correctly and easily enough, Mablung noticed, and he wondered again exactly what kind of upbringing she had had.  
  
There was a rather wistful glance at the sword and long knife he wore upon his belt, but when he shook his head, she sighed in disappointment, and took up one of the packs he had prepared without protest, as well as a waterskin.  
  
It was interesting , the lieutenant thought, how much more communicative the girl had become since her outburst a couple of days ago. She still did not speak, but she nodded and shook her head in response to questions, and would express herself in simple gestures. The day after her attack upon Lorend, she had even approached the young man cautiously and patted his arm, an obvious apology. To give him credit, Lorend had stood his ground and apologized in his turn for startling her. She had nodded, and even given him a tiny, tentative smile. That smile had mended matters between them completely, though Lorend had then taken it upon himself to try to coax her into speaking. So far he had been unsuccessful, getting naught but a distressed frown in response to his efforts. Faramir had had to command him to leave off more than once, but it was difficult to divert Lorend once he had gotten an idea into his head.  
  
"We need to hurry, lass," the lieutenant said, knowing that the sentries had announced the Captain General's immanent arrival a few minutes ago. It would take him some time to hike up the steep trail to the refuge, but Mablung did not want to be departing just as he arrived. Boromir knew the lieutenant, having gambled with him upon more than one occasion, and would undoubtedly greet him, which might very well lead to curiosity about his silent companion. The girl, seeming to sense his urgency, finished loading up swiftly and gave him an inquiring look. Pleased, Mablung nodded, and they moved quietly out of the cavern, just another pair of Rangers headed out to sentry duty. They were well away from the entrance, fading into the trees, as Boromir arrived.  
"Do you remember that business with the Sun-landers, oh, about eight years ago?" Faramir asked his brother, as they supped privately together in the alcove. It was a better meal than most, as a Damrod's hunting party had killed and roasted a deer, and brought some of the meat back for their high commander. It was cold, but Damrod kept a cache of spices about, and he knew very well how to use them, so it was quite tasty. The man had a great future before him as an innkeep or cook, once the war was over.  
  
Boromir certainly seemed to appreciate his efforts, scraping the last of the juices up with a piece of bread, which he popped into his mouth before replying. He'd done off his armor and gambeson because of the heat, and the two brothers sat in their shirt sleeves, enjoying a respite after a busy day. The Captain-General had inspected Faramir's books, his reports, the refuge, the men who were present, and had declared himself satisfied--"Not that there was any doubt," he'd said with a grin when all was done.  
  
Now he cocked a curious eyebrow. "The Sun-landers?"  
  
"Yes, you do remember, don't you? You spoke to me of it--that a man had come from Anorien to ask for help, and Father had refused him." Boromir frowned slightly, then his face cleared as the memory surfaced.  
  
"Oh. That. Whatever made you think of that?"  
  
Faramir shrugged. "Curiosity more than anything. That orc band that we slew three months ago--they had been wandering around in Anorien, and according to the sentries at Cair, they weren't the only ones, though they were the only party we were able to apprehend. I was just wondering if you'd had any news from there, about how the people were faring or if they'd perhaps sent that same fellow or another back again to talk to Father."  
  
"No, we've heard nothing from them since. And believe me, I would have heard of it had they sent their emissary back once more."  
  
"Really? Why?" Boromir did not answer immediately, but instead helped himself to a swig from one of the two wine bottles he had considerately packed up to the refuge, then handed it to his brother. Faramir took a drink in his turn most appreciatively, though he was in awe of Boromir's cheek, for judging from the label, it was from their grandfather Ecthelion's private reserve. Not that their father was a drinking man, or truly paid attention to the wine cellar, but still......only Boromir would take a couple of bottles of wine that were worth their weight in gold, carry them out to the wilderness upon his own back to share with his younger brother, then enjoy them without even affording them the dignity of a goblet. It was, perhaps, indicative of his habit of paring away extraneous details to get to the heart of a matter.  
  
"Oh, let us just say that the fellow made a very profound impression upon Father," he said at last. "The man wasn't from Anorien at all, though he had settled there. He was from the North, and I suspect had a connection to He Who Must Not Be Named."  
  
"Sauron?" Faramir asked in disbelief. Boromir grinned again, more broadly this time.  
  
"No! Captain Thorongil of glorious memory."  
  
"Oh! I see." The two men looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing. "What made you think that?" Faramir asked eventually, when he'd gotten control of himself once more.  
  
"He had this silver cloak brooch, star-shaped," answered Boromir, still chuckling. 'Tis said Thorongil had such a brooch. To make matters worse, there was an eagle and a star upon it. Father was profoundly disturbed when he saw that. He asked the man right out if he knew Thorongil, or was kin to him. The fellow, whose name I misremember--I think it began with an 'h'--said that he didn't know this Thorongil, whoever he might be, and that his people were eagle-friends."  
  
"Eagle-friends?" mused Faramir. "That's peculiar. They certainly seem to like eagles in the North, don't they? What was he like?"  
  
Boromir retrieved the bottle and took another drink, giving his brother a speculative look. "Goodness, but you're full of questions today! Why so curious?" He glanced around at the piles of books, shoved haphazardly off of the table to make room for their supper. "Have you got another of your little research projects going on?"  
  
Faramir shook his head. "I just got intrigued when you said he was from the North. We know so little of our Northern kindred--nothing of their numbers, their customs, their culture. It seemed an opportunity to learn something new."  
  
"You and your history!" declared Boromir with a grin, handing the bottle back to him. "All right then, let me see what I can remember......He was tall, eye to eye with me, leaner than me, heavier than you. Black hair, grey eyes--the standard Dunedain look. Moved like a cat. Hawk nosed, rather chiseled features. Not an ugly man, not exactly what you'd call handsome either. No armor, rather plain clothes, though he did have a shirt with some nice embroidery on it. The only other ornament he had was that brooch. His bow and sword were plain as well, though he was neatly kept and all of his equipment was in perfect order. He looked dangerous--I remember thinking at the time that I would have liked the opportunity to spar with him. Thought he might know a trick or two he could teach me."  
  
Faramir stared at his brother in disbelief, for Boromir was widely regarded as the greatest warrior in Gondor. The Captain General shrugged.  
  
"It's true--I got the impression he was a very formidable warrior. Not much of a talker though. Basically got his appointment with Father, told him about the brigands, requested aid, was refused it, glowered and gave him a few choice words about lords who don't fulfill their obligations to their people, then left to try to resolve matters himself."  
  
Faramir blinked. "He chastised Father?"  
  
"More or less. Between that, and Father thinking that perhaps Thorongil's relatives were intending to move into Anorien to annex it for their own devices, he did not make a very favorable impression. And there you have it--my observations of a Northern Dunedan."  
  
Faramir drank deeply of the bottle. "I thank you, brother--that was exactly what I wanted to know."  
  
Boromir gave him a wry smile. "So glad to have been of service! Now, what about all this orc activity you've been seeing? Why don't you pull out the maps and show me where you've been encountering them?"  
As Mablung had expected, the girl could shoot. In fact, she hit the target with all of her arrows the first round, despite the fact that she had not shot in a long time, and was using unfamiliar equipment. The second round, a hat would have covered her grouping, and on the third, the cluster of arrows could have been covered by the span of a hand, which was certainly up to Ranger standard, and truly even beyond it--there were many men in the company who were successful Rangers but did not shoot half so well. At that point, they stopped, for he could tell that she was getting tired, though she also seemed very pleased, and gave him a big smile. He showed her where it was he desired to set their bed rolls, out of sight within a thicket, and set off to fetch some water. When he returned, it was to find her quietly gathering bracken to soften their beds.  
  
"Don't get too enthusiastic there, lass--we have to scatter it all when we leave. A Ranger leaves no trace of his passage." She nodded, started fluffing what she had, then began to spread the blankets. Soon, two neat bed rolls lay within the thicket. Mablung regarded them with approval.  
  
"You've done this before, haven't you?" Hethlin nodded again, then gave him an obviously hungry look. She had a very expressive face, and he was beginning to be adept at interpreting those expressions. He glanced at the sun and smiled. "I think it's close enough to lunch time as makes no difference." Bringing out some bread, cheese, apples and a bit of the cold venison he'd filched for them, he laid out their meal on a small cloth. The girl tore into her food with enthusiasm--once she'd recovered from the fevers, her appetite had become something to behold, her body fighting to heal and return to its former status. She was still a little under what Mablung would have thought her ideal weight, but nothing like the scrawny scarecrow she once had been.  
  
Her wounds had healed fully, but despite his best efforts, the scars were quite disfiguring. She would carry them till the end of her days. And she was not a pretty girl in the conventional sense. But looking at her now, with the sun slanting through the leaves onto her hair that was beginning to gloss with regained health, and her face filled out around the hawkish nose that was its centerpiece, he thought her handsome enough, and felt a sense of pleased accomplishment that he had been able to save her life.  
  
"I need to tell you why we're out here," he said as she leaned back, replete, against a tree, brushing crumbs from her lap. "The Captain General of the whole army, Lord Boromir, is the Captain's brother, and he has come to visit him and inspect the Rangers. He will be at Henneth-Annun the whole of today and tonight, and leave in the morning."  
  
"He must not know that you are here, for to have a woman with the army is against regulations." She frowned at that, and gestured to her bow. Mablung shook his head. "He won't think that you are a Ranger, he will think that you are here to service the men." The frown became a glare. "And if the Captain explains your true situation to him, Lord Boromir will be sympathetic, but he will still take you away, back to Minas Tirith, and place you somewhere where you can be cared for." The glare became a look of trepidation.  
  
"Hethlin, I know that you are not feeble-witted or mad. But you do not speak, and he will think there is something wrong with you." Trepidation then became embarrassment, and her face contorted as she opened her mouth silently. Mablung laid a comforting hand upon her shoulder. "No lass, I'm not trying to force you to talk before you are ready, I'm just telling you what would happen. And I don't think you would like the sort of place where he would send you. So we need to lie low out here today and tonight--do you understand?" Her expression lightened, and she gave him a sober nod.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't think to bring anything for you to do. I'm going to whittle for a while--my youngest sister's lad is two, and has a birthday coming up, so I think I'll make him something." Hethlin smiled at that for a moment, then her countenance darkened suddenly. She ducked her head, and began clearing the remains of their lunch away. Mablung, thinking over what he had just said, recollected what the folk at Min-rimmon had told him about her brother and sister, how they had been so very young, and cursed himself mentally for a clumsy fool. But thinking that apologizing would only make matters worse, the lieutenant decided that silence was the best course.  
  
He watched her covertly as she carefully scattered and concealed the few crumbs that remained from their lunch, and folded the cloth to return it to his pack. That done, she went to her own and opened it, rifling through the contents out of bored curiosity. To his surprise, she suddenly made a very pleased noise, and pulled a book out of the pack. A big smile came over her face.  
  
"Did you put that in there?" Mablung asked severely, knowing how the Captain treasured his books, though in truth this particular one was one of the more battered specimens in his collection. Hethlin's eyes widened, and she shook her head vehemently. "I suppose the Captain must have done it then. See that you look after it properly and keep it out of the wet." A vigorous nod answered him, she set it carefully down upon her blanket, then began rooting through the pack once more. Her actions puzzled him--till he saw the small piece of soap in her hand. Grinning, he watched as she headed towards the creek to wash her hands in accordance with Faramir's instructions, and noted that her bow was in her hand and her quiver on her back.  
  
Anorien was a sparsely settled place, and undoubtedly dangerous. The girl had been raised to have habits which would insure her survival. Those same habits and skills would have made her a good Ranger with only a minimal effort upon Mablung's part. Startled to find himself thinking in such a way, the lieutenant shook himself hard. It was not a woman's place to go to war, unless necessity forced her to defend her homestead in her man's absence. He thought of the young men from Lossarnach or other parts of Gondor, who had come to the Rangers without those skills, had been unable to learn them swiftly enough, and had died in consequence. She was carrying the bow of one of those young men right now. Considering how badly he felt when he lost one of them, how much worse he would feel were she to be killed or wounded?   
  
That was, of course, assuming she even had the wish or will to go to war. After her experiences with the orcs, she would probably want to be as far from any sort of conflict as possible. Shooting at targets was one sort of skill, hunting for the table was yet another, shooting a man or man-like orc who was charging right at you intending to kill you was still a third. It seemed as if her father had raised her as a lad, but like most lads, she was an untried, unknown quantity. A great many people, even people trained as soldiers, died in their first few seconds of combat because they froze, and were unable to steel themselves to take life, even when their own lives were in peril. Things could happen to her, had already happened to her, that were unlikely to befall a lad, things that were arguably worse than death--he was insane to even be pursuing this line of thought!  
  
Mablung sighed, picked up his knife and one of the seasoned chunks of wood he had brought with him, and began to carve. The girl returned from the stream and settled herself upon her bedroll to read, her bow and quiver by her side, the very picture of contentment. The afternoon passed by slowly and silently for the most part, though every once in a while Hethlin would look up to check upon the progress of his carving, and smile with delight at the small, whimsical farm animals he was producing. When the light began to fail, Mablung brought supper out for them, more of the same they'd had for lunch, save for a special treat--a honey cake he'd filched from a bag Lord Boromir's aide had brought with him for his lord's dinner.  
  
The honey cake earned him a ecstatic smile, and he was amused at the way she slowly ate her half, savoring each crumb in a manner quite unlike her usual wolfish ways. As the night drew down, she stepped off for a moment to take care of necessary matters, again taking her bow with her, then washed up and settled into her bedroll without protest. The two of them ended their day by lying silently in the thicket, looking up through the branches of the trees where the stars could be seen glimmering, burning bright, hot silver against the deep blue vault of twilight. It was, Mablung thought as he drifted off to sleep, the most peaceful day he had ever passed with a woman.  
  
Down the same stream which chuckled hard by the sleeping pair, well below the Window on the West, and the pool into which it poured, a shadow moved. Patient far beyond the usual sort of his kind, he had spent the day marking the sentries, napping, and moving upstream a short distance at a time. Far wiser than most of his ilk, he had bathed himself and his clothes in the cold water of the stream, and bunches of the aromatic herbs for which Ithilien was famous graced his leather armor, along with the more usual sort of camouflaging leafy branches. The fragrance of the herbs irritated his nose, but he was a hunter and a tracker, and knew that an enemy could be found by smell as well as sight. For that reason, for an orc the scout was positively cleanly.  
  
The company to which he had been attached as a scout and tracker had been found and slain by the Rangers three days ago. Fleeing, he had gone to ground, listening still and silent while all of his fellows had died. Since then, the scout had been endeavoring to move unseen through a wood which seemed full of the green and brown-clad Men for some reason. Initially, he had hoped only to be able to climb up and over the steep slopes of the Ephel Duath, or to slip north and re-enter Mordor by way of the Morannon. Then things had changed. He had begun to notice a pattern to the movements of the Men, how they all seemed to be leaving or converging upon the same place. The scout, more intelligent than the average orc, for scouts had to be bright enough to act alone and on their own initiative, realized with excitement that he could very well be close to the legendary Ranger lair the Enemy had been trying to find for years.  
  
His plans had changed--instead of simple escape, his mission now became one of surveillance. The Nine struck fear into the heart of every orc, and he was no exception to that rule, but the scout also knew that Angmar admired initiative and had been known upon occasion to reward it handsomely. There were tales told among the barracks and dens of orcs who had been given their choice of females, riches, and the favor of the Nine, for achieving a great victory in battle, or for bringing some choice bit of intelligence to the attention of the wraiths. And Minas Morgul was about the same distance to the south as his original destination, the Morannon, was to the north.  
  
So it was he had begun to move by night, ever so carefully, his course paralleling the stream, but slightly to the south where there was plenty of cover. He had noted a faint path along its banks, another indication that he might be upon the right track. It was not enough to go to the Nazgul with the little information he had now--he had to risk penetrating the sentry lines to see the lair with his own eyes.  
  
As if the Dark powers were of a mind to reward his enterprise, he had been able to capture a couple of rabbits over the last two days to sate his hunger, their fresh, raw flesh a delightful change from his usual fare. And this morning, he had received further confirmation of his theory. He had been lying low, covered with leaves and bracken in a comfortable, shadowed hollow but a few feet off of the trail, when a party of Men had come up it. These were not Rangers, but armored soldiers of Gondor, with a man amidst them who was obviously a commander of great importance from the richness of his garb. Such a man would not be out here in the middle of the woods, just idly ambling about--he obviously had a specific destination. Perhaps he had come to confer with the cursed Captain of the Rangers.  
  
The scout had been tempted momentarily to try and assassinate the great commander, but his common sense, another faculty he possessed in greater measure than his fellows, stayed his hand, for he knew that the man's escort would have immediately combed the woods for him, and he would have had great difficulty evading them in the hurtful sunlight, even the dim and dappled sunlight of the glades. So he watched, and waited for the night, licking his gnarled lips in anticipation of what was to come, and dreaming grandiose dreams of glory and riches. He would skulk, and slink, and see, and then tell--and be the one who brought about the downfall of the Ithilien Rangers at last. 


	3. Chapter Three

August 3015--As true darkness fell, the orc began to move once more, ever so carefully and quietly. He intended to take as much time as was necessary to penetrate the perimeter of the Ranger haven; indeed, he could not afford to do otherwise, for it was unlikely that he would get more than one opportunity. If others had ever come this close, they had not survived to tell the tale. He intended to be the first to make the boast, and take the reward for accomplishing it   
  
So he crept in small increments up the stream, pausing often for long periods to look and listen and scent the wind for any sign of sentries. It was not his intention to engage them unless discovery made it absolutely necessary--he was not a large orc or a great warrior. He possessed some skill when it came to killing swiftly and silently from behind, but littering the forest with dead sentries would alert the Rangers to his presence. Discovering the location of the refuge would do him no good if he was killed after obtaining the information. Along with more than average wits and intelligence, he possessed more patience than was usual among his brethren, and he used that now.   
  
The land began sloping more steeply upward, the stream's banks began to cut into the earth and the roaring of a waterfall increased as he drew ever closer. A couple of hours before midnight, he encountered a sentry. Hunkering down in the underbrush, moving one limb at a time, making not the slightest sound, he crept past the man. From that point on, his progress became even more cautious and careful. The cut in which the stream flowed grew taller and steeper, and eventually he lost sight of it. He heard another sentry to the south of him, and lay quiet for a long time before he resumed moving, unsure as to whether he had penetrated the inner perimeter or if he were moving between an outer and inner one.  
  
Eventually, he spied a glimmer ahead of him through the trees to his left. The roar was quite loud now. Further careful progress showed him a thinning in the trees ahead of him, apparently some sort of path more worn from constant use than the deer track he'd used earlier. Shadows were moving upon it, more sentries. The sheer number of Men he was encountering was both frightening and exciting. Frightening because of the possibility he would be discovered, exciting because their numbers indicated to him that he was very close to what he sought.  
  
Dropping back a little to the south, he began to parallel the path as he had the stream earlier. Several times he was forced to freeze in place to avoid sentries, who were now to both the north and south of him. In those hours between midnight and dawn, the orc scout called upon all his native cunning and craft as he never had before. The sentries remained oblivious to his presence, and as dawn was beginning to lighten the horizon, his efforts were rewarded. He watched, amazed, as men upon the path vanished into the earth, and issued forth from it, and realized that there must be some sort of cavern system behind the waterfall itself.   
  
No wonder the Enemy had sought in vain for this place! Exultant, he realized that he had found the golden prize itself! Now all he had to do was lie low until nightfall and make his way back out, preferably up the course of the stream that fed into the waterfall, that he might mark its source so as to aid his fellows in finding the place again.  
  
The light was growing perilously fast, so he turned his mind from thoughts of his reward to more practical matters. In a tumble of boulders beneath a gnarled and overhanging tree, he found a place in which to den up for the day, and crept in. Exhausted by the strain of his stealthy journey, the orc was asleep by the time the rim of the sun crept over the horizon.  
  
************  
  
Mablung fed the girl more bread and cheese for breakfast, and brought out another surprise--a smallish bottle that turned out to contain ale, which he shared between the two of them. Hethlin grinned when she took the first swig, and looked at him meaningfully.  
  
"I like a little ale for breakfast," he grumped, and she actually laughed. The sound of approaching footsteps made her head snap up, then she looked at his unconcerned posture, and relaxed again. Damrod strode into their tiny camp, a pack upon his back.  
  
"There's been a change of plans, Mablung," he announced without preamble.  
  
"And a good morning to you too, Damrod," the lieutenant growled at his fellow lieutenant. Damrod took a step back as if in horror, and grinned at the girl.  
  
"Gracious, Hethlin, you mean to tell me he hasn't had his morning bottle yet, the big baby? You'd best hand it back over quickly--he's a veritable dragon till he's had it!"  
  
Eyes twinkling, the girl passed the bottle back to Mablung, leaning away from him and extending the bottle towards him with the tips of her fingers as if she feared they would be bitten off. Mablung took it.  
  
"The two of you are very funny." But he followed his statement with another swig of the ale.  
  
"As I said, there's been a change of plans," Damrod continued. "The Captain-General's staying another day." Mablung frowned.  
  
"What for? Surely he did not find anything to complain of?"  
  
"Nay, nothing like that. From what I was able to hear, it's more along the lines of a day off. Captain Boromir says he has not had one in eight months, and if he goes to Tirith to take leave, his father will just make him sit in council all day. And he wants to spend some time with his brother. So he's just going to stay up here an extra day, pretend he's looking the situation over further and rest instead."  
  
"The Captain could use a bit of that himself," commented Mablung, and Damrod nodded.  
  
"That's the pure truth! It'll be good for him too. In any event, you'll need to stay out here till tomorrow, so I brought you some more food. There's another book for the girl as well."  
  
"I don't think she's finished the first one yet, but give the Captain our thanks when it's safe to do so." Damrod nodded, and started swiftly emptying the pack of its contents.  
  
"Damrod," Mablung said as he was finishing the task, "the girl can shoot." Damrod cocked an eyebrow at him.  
  
"A lot of these farm girls do know one end of a bow from the other. Some of them hunt for the pot."  
  
"No, I mean she can really shoot." Hethlin ducked her head, blushing a little, and Damrod contemplated the top of her head for a moment.  
  
"Anborn says she can really fletch as well," he commented. "And she knows a little bit about the sword--"  
  
"--though not about finishing the job when she had the chance!" interjected Mablung, and the two men laughed.  
  
"'Tis curious, is it not?" said Damrod, shaking his head thoughtfully. "I remember that mending you set out for her. Valar, how you cursed! She's good for naught of womanly things but doing the laundry. Whatever were her parents thinking of?"  
  
Hethlin shot a glare at Damrod. Mablung gave her a considering look.  
  
"I'm thinking her parents were doing as any parents do--letting her go where her own best gifts would take her."  
  
"Into the woods? The wild? 'Tis no place for a woman, Mablung."  
  
"Then what is her place?"  
  
"Fortunately for us, that is the Captain's job to decide."  
  
************  
  
The Captain, having imbibed the better part of one of the bottles of wine at his brother's instigation, slept very late, and woke in a less than cheerful mood.  
  
"Valar! What is the hour? Why did no one wake me?"  
  
"No one woke you," replied Boromir from a bedroll upon the floor, "because I commanded them not to. You needed the rest, little brother."  
  
"If you were so concerned about my well-being, you might have prevented my waking with a hangover, you wretch!" grumbled Faramir. "Instead of encouraging it!"  
  
"I did not hold a sword to your throat and force you to drink that wine!" the Captain-General declared, pushing up on an elbow. He'd slept in naught but breeches, and had put Faramir to bed the same way.  
  
"Perhaps not, but I'm sure you're at fault somehow. All my indulgences in vice can generally be traced directly to you!"  
  
"I would be derelict in my duty as a proper big brother could they not," Boromir agreed equably, stretching. "Though I must say, I had hoped you would have developed a better head for the stuff by now." That earned him a frown from Faramir, who had sat up, and was groping about for his boots.  
  
"I don't drink as a rule, unless you're about. Not like that." Finding the offending footwear, he began to pull it on, grimacing as the motion of bending over made his head pound. "What is it you want to do on your day off, oh commander-in-chief?"  
  
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Boromir arose as well, and began rolling the blankets up with the neat, economical motions of someone who'd done it thousands of times. "I do not want to do anything but go swim in that frigid pool of yours, and eat your wretched food--it's a credit to you all, by the way, that you accomplish what you do on those horrible dried rations--and lie in the sun and just talk to my brother."  
  
"That does sound lovely," Faramir admitted, "like basking on the beach at Dol Amroth."  
  
"Your water's a lot colder than Dol Amroth is this time of year." Boromir looked about for his own boots.  
  
"Well, if you must have warm water, we could always hike down to Anduin. It is only about fifteen miles each way," his brother suggested mildly. "Your boots are over there in the corner. I have no idea how they got there, but I can see them from here."  
  
"Thank you." The Captain-General went to the indicated corner and started pulling them on. "I think I'll pass on the thirty-mile stroll, brother."  
  
"Tsssk. The regular army gets softer by the day." Boromir cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"Is that a challenge, Faramir? Because this day I do want to be soft and indolent, and will not answer it." Faramir sighed.  
  
"In truth, I don't think I have the energy either. See--you're corrupting me again!"  
  
************  
  
An hour later, the brothers had bathed and swum in the Forbidden Pool, and were basking on the small piece of beach at the foot of the path that led down to it. The sun was directly overhead, which made it the best time of day for such activities, and the heat was lulling. They lay back, using their towels to cushion them from the odd stone, and let the sun bake them dry.  
  
"Speaking of Dol Amroth," Boromir said, "Cousin Elphir is coming up here to do a tour with me next month."  
  
"Really?" Faramir asked, surprised. He was in a much better mood, for one of Mablung's vile herbal concoctions, followed by the cold water and warm sun had worked wonders upon his headache. "However did you get Father to agree to that?"  
  
"It was not easy, it never is with Father. You know how he gets when he thinks Uncle is sticking his nose in. I had to give him a big speech about unity between our forces, increased efficiency, everybody needing to know how to work together. Of course, I made sure I gave it in Council, in front of everybody."  
  
Faramir sighed in admiration of his brother's daring and political acumen. "You're good."   
  
The Captain-General folded his arms behind his head, and smiled. "Yes. Yes, I am."  
  
The Ranger Captain sat up, reached for the comb he had laid close to hand with his sword, and began dragging it carefully through his still-damp locks.  
  
"I do not mean to offend you brother," he said thoughtfully, "but I find it curious that we do not have a unit like Uncle's Swan Knights. I'm not saying cavalry necessarily, but something that tight-knit and with that tradition of excellence. There is the Tower Guard, but they are rather small, and they don't go afield. It's something you might look into doing."  
  
Boromir did not take offense. "I don't have to," he murmured without opening his eyes. "Because you are mistaken, Brother. I do already have an elite unit that is tight-knit, well-led and has a tradition of pulling off miracles. It's called the Ithilien Rangers." He then cocked an eye open so he could watch with delight as his younger brother's sun-bronzed cheeks flushed red.  
  
************  
  
There were no dried rations for the Captain General's lunch after all, but rather the good bread and honey-cakes his own aide had brought, a fine cheese, blackberries that had been gathered wild by the Rangers, and bacon that had been cooked by them five miles from the refuge and carried back that morning. He and Faramir carried their spoils out to the ledge near the cave entrance, and sat them upon a blanket under the shade of the tree, where they could watch the waterfall, and the comings and goings of the Rangers.   
  
"Father is after me again to take a wife," Boromir commented, once they'd sated the first edge of their hunger.  
  
"You really should," his brother replied after chewing and swallowing a crisp bacon piece appreciatively. "Why haven't you?"  
  
"Oh, I have my reasons. What sort of life would it be, married to me? The poor girl would never see me-I am home only about one month in six."  
  
"One month in six is time enough to get you an heir," declared Faramir. "Which you should have done long before now. We are neither of us in a safe line of work." The Steward's Heir gave his younger brother a wicked grin.  
  
"All too true, brother! I have got an idea! Why don't I delegate this little task? You marry first, and get yourself an heir, then I will follow when I have time."  
  
Faramir shrugged, and started popping blackberries into his mouth. "My objections are much the same as yours. Not that that means anything to Father. He'll get around to picking out someone for me one day, command me to marry her and that will be that."  
  
Boromir did not deny it. "He's trying to do something of the sort to me. Gave me a list of ladies he deemed suitable. Most of them are mere children. 'Thiri's age. Perhaps if they were more like 'Thiri, I might be tempted."  
  
"I suppose......he would let you marry 'Thiri if you truly had a mind to," Faramir commented thoughtfully. "Uncle might let you as well if he thought the two of you were in love. He has said that our cousins might wed to suit themselves, and Elphir has already married the lady he fancied."  
  
"Yes, I got Elphir thrown in my face as a paragon of familial virtue the last time I was home. Which should show you how desperate Father is about the situation, if he is praising anything Dol Amroth does!" Boromir snorted as he started eating the blackberries as well. "No, I'll not wed 'Thiri, we're too close kin. There is too much of that about the court already, and I'd like my children to have the right number of fingers, and all of their wits!"  
  
"Who was on Father's list?"  
  
"Oh, the usual lot. Little Jerulas from Belfalas, Sealyn of Lossarnach--you know the crew. Theodred says I may have his cousin Eowyn, and I'm tempted. Father would be torn between the necessity of strengthening the alliance with Rohan, and the horror that I was marrying someone who was not Numenorean. It might be fun."  
  
"Have you seen her? What is she like?" asked Faramir curiously.  
  
"I've not been in Rohan for a long time. Last time I saw her, she was about the age 'Thiri is. That would make her twenty now.....maybe twenty-one, I'm not sure. She was pretty enough, and feisty. A tomboyish little thing. Harassed Theodred until he let her ride to the hunt with us, and kept up just fine. Not squeamish, either."  
  
"Not squeamish, hey? Sounds like the ideal wife for you!" Faramir quipped. Boromir cuffed his shoulder and handed him a piece of the bread.  
  
"Since she's not Numenorean, Father may have her in mind for you. Which would be a shame, since she would no doubt eat you alive."  
  
Faramir eyed him from under hooded lids, took a bite of the bread, chewed it slowly, then swallowed. "I rather doubt it," he said at last.  
  
************  
  
"Where is Mablung?" inquired Boromir that evening, as they sat over dinner in the alcove. Once again, the men had gone out of their way to please the Captain-General, and a pot of rabbit stew in wine sauce simmered upon Faramir's spirit lamp. "I've not seen your right-hand man the whole time I've been here. Is he on patrol?"  
  
"He is out with a new recruit. We do that now, so that they learn the things they need to know a little better before they see battle. Within the outer sentry perimeter, so it is safe enough," Faramir replied after a moment.  
  
"Since when did you start doing that?" Boromir inquired.  
  
"Since I started getting recruits, sending them out on their first patrol, and having them killed. We cannot afford the loses--Orcs breed faster than we do." The Captain-General nodded his comprehension.  
  
"That sounds like a good idea, Faramir." He was drinking the company's ale this evening, as they'd finished the wine the night before, and was looking over the reports once more as they ate, since he was going to leave early in the morning. "You are a good commander, seeing to such details. A good commander indeed...." He held up the report upon the orc ambush at the River. "This, for instance, was a sweet action, with the rarest of results. The enemy totally destroyed, not one of your men slain. Even Father could not fault you on this one!"   
  
"Oh, I suspect he could find something there to take exception to," Faramir remarked dryly, thinking of the girl. Boromir, scanning the report, paused suddenly.  
  
"They had a captive with them? Whatever happened to the poor fellow? Were you able to save him? Question him? It does not say anything here except that he went into the River."  
  
Faramir stared at his brother, frozen, for he had not anticipated that his brother would ask about the captive, or even be particularly interested. Boromir was not someone he could lie to, not that he felt himself to be good at falsehood or concealment anyway, and he realized now that his subterfuge with Mablung was a futile thing that was going to accomplish nothing except to make him look bad. His brother was the person in the world he was closest to, and deserved nothing less than the truth.  
  
"Faramir? What is the matter?" Boromir's brow furrowed at the look on his brother's face.  
  
"The captive survived," Faramir said quietly, after a moment's hesitation, "I fished her out of the River myself."  
  
"Her? The orcs had a woman with them?"  
  
"A girl. I think she is about sixteen." The Captain-General frowned.  
  
"Where is she now, Faramir?"  
  
"With Mablung, within the outer sentry perimeter. Where I had hoped," Faramir admitted miserably, "you would not find her."   
  
************  
  
It did not take long to tell Hethlin's story, and Boromir paced about as Faramir did it, looming over the younger man like a louring thundercloud.  
  
"You swear to me that she is not your leman, nor shared among the men?" he said at the conclusion of the tale.   
  
That brought Faramir to his own feet in a hurry. "Any man who could have forced her after having seen how hurt she was when we found her is no man I would have in my company! And how could you think for a moment that I would use her that way, brother? I will admit that I tried to conceal her from you, but I have never done anything to make you believe I was capable of such calumny as that!"  
  
Boromir threw up a hand in appeasement. "Peace, Faramir! I did not truly believe you could do such a thing, but this deception of yours has wounded me, and I suppose I wished to wound you a bit in return. How could you not believe that I would help you?" Faramir picked up his tankard of ale, and folded his hands around it.  
  
"I did not wish to involve you, should Father hear of this. And I truly did not know what you would do--that you would do what you felt would be of help to me, of that I was certain. But whether what you did would be good for Hethlin--that I did not know."  
  
"I have nothing against the girl!" Boromir protested. "She has certainly suffered enough to make anyone pity her. But your company of Rangers is not the place for her! Do you truly believe that she may be the daughter of that fellow from Anorien you questioned me about?"  
  
Faramir nodded, set the tankard back on the table, and went over to the chest that held his possessions. "That I do, and this is why I think so." He reached within, and drew out the sword that Mablung had brought back from Min-rimmon. Unsheathing it, he handed the blade to his brother, who hefted it experimentally, then gave it a swing and whistled in appreciation.  
  
"This is a fine blade!"  
  
"'Tis all she has left of her family now," Faramir said somberly. "Look upon the blade, hard by the hilt." Boromir examined the device engraved there, and nodded.  
  
"'Tis indeed the same device he bore on his brooch. And you said his name was Halaran? That is much like the name I remember." He sighed. "It saddens me that such a man should come to such an end. And the children, and his wife, and what was wrought upon the girl herself--by such acts does the Enemy's vile nature make itself known." Sheathing the blade, he handed it back to Faramir. "What is it you wish to do with her?"  
  
"Send her to Uncle," came his prompt reply. "He will know what is best to do, I am sure of it. I would have sent her myself already, had the opportunity presented itself. But by the time she was well enough to make the journey, we started having all of those orc incursions. Things seem to be quieting down now though, and I was hoping to send her soon."  
  
"I could take her back with me when I return to Osgiliath," Boromir offered, but Faramir shook his head.  
  
"I do not wish to put her into the hands of strangers; not even your men, brother. I would like to send Mablung with her, if I could find a way to arrange it. Him she trusts." The Captain-General gave him a thoughtful look.  
  
"That's a long time to go without your second in command. Depending upon the weather, it could take up to two months to get to Dol Amroth and back."  
  
"Even so, I will do without him to accomplish this." Boromir nodded.  
  
"Very well then. I will consider how it may best be done. Why don't we go out and find them? I would like to see her for myself, and speak to Mablung without your whole company listening in. And then they can come back with us. No sense in their sleeping in the rough now that I know she's here."  
  
"It is full dark, Boromir."  
  
"What matters that? The night is cool and the walk will be pleasant." Faramir murmured an assent, and began shrugging into his leather. Boromir started donning his gambeson and chain as well, for despite what he'd said about enjoyment, he was a prudent man and had no illusions about being safe in Ithilien, even within the sentry perimeter. When he'd pulled them on, and was fastening the buckles, he looked over at his brother.  
  
"Faramir?"  
  
The Ranger Captain turned to look at Boromir, who smiled at him fondly. "Thank you for being truthful with me."  
  
Faramir dropped his eyes. "There is no credit in this for me, brother. I should have been honest with you from the start." Boromir shrugged.  
  
"You were not dishonest. You did hide her from me, but when I asked you directly, you answered truly. I understand why you did what you did, but fear not. We shall see the girl properly settled together." His younger brother nodded after a moment and buckled on his sword.  
  
And as full dark fell, the orc roused himself from his den, to begin to make his creeping, careful way out of the sentry lines, towards what he hoped would be reward beyond reckoning for him, and death to the Ithilien Rangers. 


	4. Chapter Four

August 3015--Hethlin had not finished the first book the Captain had given her, but she did soon after breakfast, and took up the second. Her reading and the lieutenant's carving occupied them both till after lunch, when Mablung set the little animals aside, and looked at the girl.

"Let's take a walk," he said. "I'm getting stiff as that log over there." Hethlin seemed pleased at the prospect, and immediately packed the book carefully away into her pack, preparing to shoulder it. The lieutenant stopped her.

"We'll be back. Just bring your bow." That pleased her even more, and she rose swiftly, with a coltish grace. Mablung followed in a more workmanlike fashion.

He spent the afternoon evaluating her level of skill in woodsmanship, watching her track, having her skulk through a thick patch of underbrush. She found these exercises to be most enjoyable, her eyes gleaming gleefully, and when he ceased the trials, he owned himself impressed. If her father had taught her his trade, he'd done a good job, for all that he'd been prematurely and permanently interrupted. She was more competent than several of the young men who had become successful Rangers.

The perpetual silence was beginning to wear upon him, however, particularly since he knew there was no physical reason for it. It was not so noticeable when they were in the company of the other Rangers, but now, with no other companionship, the one-sided nature of their conversations was glaringly obvious. Remembering how the Captain had chastised Lorend for forcing her to talk, Mablung swore to himself he would make no effort to do so, but late in the afternoon, despite his resolution, a frustrated sigh gusted out of him.

"I wish you were more talkative, Hethlin. You're a pleasant enough companion, but a man wearies of the sound of his own voice."

The look she gave him then was so stricken and shame-faced that he apologized at once.

"I'm sorry, lass! I didn't mean to be surly--it's just that sitting out here and not knowing what is going on is frustrating." Hethlin's response to that was a remorseful, sidelong glance which told him she was well aware that she was the cause of his exile and that he wasn't helping matters with his explanation. He grunted uncomfortably.

"Oh, forget I said anything, lass! There are men in the world who would love to be in the company of a sweet, silent lass such as yourself. The Valar know I wish my sisters had been so quiet every once in a while!" That earned him a tentative smile. "You know anything about what you can gather to eat in the forest?" She nodded. "Then why don't we go up the stream a little, and see what we can find for supper?"

They came back half an hour later with some cresses found in the stream, some small mushrooms and a few handfuls of berries, and added these to the food Damrod had brought that morning to make another cold but adequate supper. Hethlin ate with her usual appetite, washed up afterwards, and settled down once more with the new book Faramir had sent her till the sun went down, and it got so dark that Mablung told her to stop reading so as not to damage her eyes. They then settled into their bedrolls for their second evening under the stars.

"I hope the Captain has enjoyed his little vacation," Mablung muttered quietly as he shifted around until he was upon his back looking upward. "I'd like to think we are roughing it for a good cause! He's been under a lot of strain lately. Mayhaps his brother got him drunk and put him in a better mood. If I know the Captain-General, and I rather fancy I do, he didn't come up here without a bottle or two!" A tiny chuckle came from Hethlin's direction. "Well, in any event, we'll be back at the refuge in the morning, after they send to tell us Lord Boromir's gone. Get some rest, lass." He could barely see her answering nod.

***

The orc began moving again as darkness fell. Still very conscious of his precarious situation, he was nonetheless also eager to be free of the net of men into which he had cast himself, so that he could achieve his mission and receive his reward. Moving to the east and slightly to the south, he kept his course parallel to both the path and the gorge of the stream which it bounded upon the southern side, hoping that a straight-line course would take him out of the area of the Ranger hideout with the fewest encounters. A little after full dark, he was well past the entrance into the earth, and headed upstream. Two sentries coming in from watch and chatting amiably together caused him to freeze in a thick patch of brush, but intent upon their conversation and confident because of their proximity to their headquarters, they never noticed him.

Once past them, he encountered no one else, and picked up his pace a bit--only to pay the price for his haste by all but stumbling over a sentry unawares. The Ranger was standing quietly behind a large tree, which was why he did not see him, and peered around at the sound of a twig breaking beneath the orc's foot. 

There was no time to plan; desperate, the orc lunged forward, dagger in hand, and plunged it into the Ranger's belly, dragging him down by the throat. The man gurgled, his hands closed about the orc's, and made a strangled moan as the orc twisted the blade within him, ramming it upwards. Then he went limp. The orc tried to ease the body gently to the ground, but there was a slight crackling of underbrush. He froze for a long moment, then, hearing no answering outcry, continued on his way up stream, up the slopes that began to climb towards the Ephel Duath. The scout had decided that he'd had enough of Ithilien--he would make his progress towards Minas Ithil on the Mordor side of the mountains.

***

The girl lay awake, looking up at the stars, and listening to the sounds of the night about her. A slight breeze soughed in the branches of the trees, a soothing murmur almost like a mother's whisper, and the air was redolent with the aromatic herbs that Ithilien was famous for. A slight lightening of the sky towards the East indicated that Ithil was going to rise soon. Her fingers slipped out of the blanket and reached to touch her bow, as if for reassurance. Memories of good times spent with her father under the eaves of the forests of the Ered Nimrais came into her mind, and she closed her eyes for a moment, fighting back tears. 

The faintest of sounds, at the very limit of her hearing, caught her attention. It was almost indiscernible and all she knew was that it was not a usual sort of forest sound. Unmoving, so as to not obscure the sound, she strained her ears and heard another. Something was coming towards their campsite, moving stealthily like an animal on the hunt. It was coming uphill from the direction of the cavern, and she wondered for a moment if perhaps one of the sentries was trying to pull some sort of trick upon Mablung. If so, she did not think the lieutenant would appreciate it.

Sliding soundlessly from her bedroll, she reached out to Mablung, who looked as if he'd fallen asleep already, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. His eyes snapped open, and squinted as he peered up at her. She gestured in the direction of the sounds she'd heard, then pointed at her ear. He nodded, and sat up, and she returned to her bedroll, slid her quiver onto her shoulder, took up her bow, and waited, crouching beneath their bushy shelter. Beside her, the lieutenant disentangled himself from his bedroll in turn, and armed as quietly as possible. 

A couple of minutes passed. Nothing further was heard, and Mablung had just turned his head to speak chidingly to the girl when there was another of the slight sounds. He froze for a moment, then his own hand crept stealthily over his back for an arrow to nock. Hethlin had already done so.

If anything, Mablung thought that one of the sentries was playing a game of Tag the Ranger. What he did not expect to see was an orc moving through the underbrush on the other side of the small clearing that was their camp.

Dread curled in his belly as he realized that the orc was probably a scout, and had penetrated all the way into the inner sentry perimeter. What if it had seen Henneth-Annun, and understood the significance of what it had seen? Certainly the orc saw him. With a muffled growl, it loosed an arrow from its short bow which went hissing through the branches of their thicket, uncomfortably close to Mablung, who flung himself to the side. The lieutenant then answered with his own shot, which was more successful--the orc yelped softly, and scampered away into the underbrush. Scrambling up, Mablung pursed his lips and made the night-bird call that indicated an intruder, paused a moment, then repeated it. An answering call came from the sentry posted to their north, but nothing from the one to the south. He started to pursue the orc, then stopped, remembering his companion.

Hethlin was getting to her feet as well, the whites of her eyes visible even in the dim light. She was trembling, but held her bow ready. Mablung shook his head forbiddingly.

"You stay here lass, go back to the refuge. I have to catch and kill him, he might have found out our location. You will be safe enough. Better that Lord Boromir discover you are here than you get yourself into trouble once more."

She had always been biddable, but this time she shook her head stubbornly, and moved out of the thicket in the direction the orc had gone.

"Hethlin, go back!" Mablung commanded. The girl merely jerked her head in the direction of the orc's path as if to say he was escaping, then held up first one finger, then the rest of them one at a time, completing the sequence with a shrug of her shoulders. She seemed to be saying that there could have been more than one, and the lieutenant had to admit she was right, in which case it might very well be no more safe for her to go back alone than go on with him. Less safe, in fact, for at least if she were with him, he could protect her.

"All right then," he capitulated, heading out, "but you do as I say! You let me deal with him, and if we meet up with more of them, then we are going to run, do you understand?" A fervent nod was his answer. It was not entirely the truth--if they met up with more orcs, Mablung intended to buy the time for her escape, with his life if necessary. But she did not need to know that.

***

Stifling a grunt of pain, the orc pressed onward, trying for the best compromise between outright flight and the too-slow progress of stealth. The cursed Ranger's arrow had creased his shoulder, which was bleeding freely, and he would have liked to hole up somewhere, but he knew it was not possible. The Ranger's whistle was obviously a signal, and soon the woods would be crawling with his companions. The orc had an advantage in his superior night vision, and more acute senses, but the Rangers had sheer numbers on their side. No, his only hope was to get out of the area as swiftly as possible while not attracting the attention of any more Rangers.

For a brief, hopeful time, he thought he had evaded the two Men, but he soon heard noises to the rear of him that indicated they were in pursuit, and he stepped up his pace. If he could open enough distance between them and himself, perhaps he could make them loose the trail.

***

"Here, hand me that, will you?" Boromir asked his brother, indicating the girl's sword. Faramir did as he was bidden, raising a curious eyebrow. "I know you said that she does not talk, but I do have some questions I'd like to ask her about her father."

"I don't know that it will do any good, but you are welcome to try. Though she has managed to make herself understood fairly well without speech. Mablung always seems to understand what she wants." Faramir took up his bow and quiver as his brother buckled on his own blade, and slung the girl's sword over his shoulder by the belt.

"Mablung is a clever fellow, with a sound head upon his shoulders." Boromir declared. "He's a good one--you keep him close, and I'll do what I can for him." The Ranger Captain smiled, a twinkle in his eye.

"You just admire him because he can beat you at cards."

"That is more luck than skill!" came the predictable protest. "Not that being lucky is a bad thing," Boromir added in swift and superstitious reflex. He grinned as cheekily as if he were claiming fortune's favor as a birthright, and his brother in turn shook his head as if humoring one who was delusional.

"I'll take skill over luck any day."

"You would! For such an incurable romantic, you're depressingly practical at times." After taking a brief moment to speak to the head of his escort and command him to remain at the refuge, the Captain-General followed his brother out into the main chamber and up the stairs.

***

A great deal of skill and a little luck kept Mablung on the trail of the intruder, as did the girl's younger, sharper senses. Ithil was rising above the Ephel Duath, and the orc was leaving a slight blood trail, but it was still difficult to track him in the dark and move with enough speed to try to close with him. More than once, the Ranger had to stop and cast about, and each time Hethlin would look, listen intently and even sniff and help set them back upon their way again.

The trail was all straight uphill, the orc was obviously going to try to get over the mountains. Mablung needed to catch him before he got into the stonier regions upon the high slopes, where it would be impossible to track him, and where there were hundreds of places among the rocks where he could hide and slip away. The lieutenant was a fit man, hard from years of Rangering, and not troubled overmuch by the pursuit, but he cast a worried look at his companion from time to time. Her legs were long, and she could keep up with him, but she was starting to huff a bit. Her lifestyle as a child had no doubt made her strong and capable of enduring hardship, or she would not have survived what the orcs inflicted upon her. But her convalescence had been lengthy, and had not prepared her for a prolonged chase up a mountainside. She was beginning to feel the strain.

Had the orc scout been one that they had simply encountered elsewhere in the woods, he would have let it slip away out of concern for his companion. But that was not a choice he possessed now.

"You all right?" he asked her. Hethlin nodded.

"You wanted to come along when I told you you shouldn't, so you'd better keep up now. No complaints." As he'd expected, that earned him a glare, and the girl's face set in a determined grimace. Her stride lengthened, and she drew even with him. Mablung grinned.

***

The Steward's sons emerged from the caverns to the sound of night bird calls echoing through the air. Damrod had gathered a squad of six men and was preparing to leave.

"What has happened?" Faramir inquired, head cocked slightly to listen to the signals.

"Intruder, sir," Damrod responded. "Just one, we think, almost due east. Celoren's post, but he's not answering. I was about to go take a look."

"I will go with you."

"And I as well," the Captain-General said.

Damrod looked uneasily at his commander. "Captain, Mablung was out there."

"All is well, Damrod," Faramir reassured him. "I have told my brother about Hethlin. We were just going out to talk to her."

Damrod's face cleared. "Talk at her then, don't you mean? A rather one-sided conversation, if the Captain-General will pardon my saying so." Boromir inclined his head graciously, and Damrod shrugged. "As we're all going in the same direction, sirs, we may as well go together." Faramir nodded his agreement, and they were about to move out, when someone cleared his throat behind them. The brothers turned to find Boromir's aide standing there with the rest of his escort.

"I know you commanded us to remain behind, my lord, but surely you can see that this changes things! Please let us accompany you!" the man implored.

Boromir smiled. "Gethrin," he said kindly, "I think that my brother, myself, these good Rangers and the Rangers already out there can handle a single intruder! You are to stay here as I have commanded. We won't be long."

Gethrin bowed, his unhappiness with the situation very apparent, and there was some low muttering among Boromir's men, but they filed back down the stairs obediently enough.

"They don't trust you with us," Damrod commented wryly. "As if they'd be any good out there, clanking and crashing around! We'll take good care of you sir, never you fear about that!"

Boromir laughed, and fell in beside his brother. "I am not worried, lieutenant. Faramir and I have looked after each other for a long time now." Faramir cocked an eyebrow at him.

"And I'll continue to do what I can, brother, but see that you keep up in all that armor, and try not to make _too_ much noise!" he jested as the Rangers began moving swiftly eastward.

***

The orc hurried on, cursing to himself about his two pursuers, for, despite their disadvantage in the dark, the two Rangers had not lost his trail and fallen behind as he had hoped. There were some miles to cover before he began to climb into the stony uplands of the Ephel Duath, and he doubted that he'd reach them before dawn. 

Perhaps he could find a way to draw far enough ahead of his pursuers to ambush them. Once the Rangers were dead, he was reasonably sure he'd be safe enough to travel almost till dawn, for he could move cautiously once more and avoid any outlying patrols. Then he could lair up somewhere high in the hills, and continue into Mordor at his own pace the following night. Or perhaps he could buy himself enough time to confuse his trail so that they'd never be able to find it again.

In either event, he was going to have to move faster than he was moving now. With another silent curse, the orc scout resigned himself to the necessity of picking up the pace, and began to move so quickly that he was almost loping along.

***

"Valar, we're losing him!" cursed Mablung, stopping once more to cast about the orc's trail. Hethlin bent over, hands upon knees, fighting to catch her breath. A few moments later, she straightened back up, though her left hand continued to rub a stitch in her side. Frowning in concentration, she listened carefully, then, hearing a faint crashing in the distance, moved over to Mablung and indicated a course a little to the left of their current track.

"You sure?" he asked and she nodded, pointing a finger to her ear. "All right then, let's keep going." 

The lieutenant was not a happy man. They were losing the orc and were much farther from Henneth-Annun than he would have chosen to be with only a convalescent former orc-captive as a companion. But while he had signaled the nearest sentry, he could not wait for reinforcements lest he lose the orc's trail, and now he feared that he and Hethlin were far in front of any possible aid from his fellow Rangers. Certainly, he'd neither heard nor seen any sign that they were coming.

Hethlin nodded weary acknowledgment of his command, and as they started moving again, Mablung handed her his long knife.

"You leave him to me when we catch him, but you should have this in case something happens." Another nod from the girl, as she shoved the dagger into her belt without breaking stride. Mablung knew that she was afraid of the orc, yet she had carried herself well thus far, and had been invaluable in aiding him in the tracking of his quarry. Not for the first time, the lieutenant found himself regretting she was not a lad.

Wondering, also not for the first time, if her dead father had had the same regret, he made a silent promise to the dead man.

_I am going to do my best, Halaran, to see that your daughter does not die tonight._

***

Faramir said very little to his brother as they made their way towards where the sentry had been silenced and Boromir did not trouble him with questions, simply watching as Faramir listened to and interpreted his Rangers' signals.

They reached Celoren's position swiftly enough, and found the man dead. Damrod, who was one of their better trackers, examined the area in the growing moonlight and frowned.

"An orc," he confirmed with a frown. "Just one, but the trail leads back towards the falls, sir. I'm afraid there's a good chance he found us."

Faramir received the disastrous news calmly enough, did not curse nor even raise his voice, but Boromir was taken aback by how much he suddenly resembled their father.

"How is it that this came to pass?" came the deceptively mild question.

"You know as well as anyone, Captain, that it's possible to slip in almost anywhere, if you're smart enough, quiet enough, and lucky enough," Damrod replied a bit defensively. 

Faramir did not press the issue, but merely said, "We will discuss the failure of our perimeter security at another time, Damrod. Which way did the orc go?" The lieutenant looked unhappy, his expression showing clearly that, as the officer in charge, he knew that the blame for the failure lay with him. But he turned his attention back to the matter at hand resolutely.

"This way, sir," he said, picking up the trail once more and moving eastward. Faramir, Boromir and the rest of the Rangers all fell in behind him.

"And where were Mablung and Hethlin camped?" Faramir asked. Damrod looked back over his shoulder, and his face was grim.

"This way, sir," he repeated.

A short time later, the patrol found the deserted camp and once again, Damrod searched for signs of what had happened there.

"They've gone after the orc," he told his Captain after some minutes of study, "and it looks as if Mablung may have wounded it. There's orc blood over here."

"_Why_ did he take the girl with him?" muttered Faramir. "She must be terrified of orcs, and rightly so! How could he ask that of her?"

"He might have been trying to protect her, " Damrod speculated, "if he were afraid there were more of them, he might have thought her safer with him."

"There is some truth to that," Faramir conceded. "Very well, we're falling further and further behind just standing here. Let's follow them and find them before they get themselves into trouble."

***

Finally, the orc was opening out some distance between himself and his pursuers, and he now had to make his decision--to simply try to lose them, or to ambush them and finish the matter once and for all. His concern that even if he lost them, the Rangers would not rest until they rediscovered his trail, and his very real need for rest eventually made the decision for him. Fear spurring him onward, the scout began to once more indulge in behavior very unlike the usual orc. With many a muted grunt of pain, he began to climb a nearby tree, and once he was high enough to have a good view of the forest floor below, but not so high that the branches were thin, began to creep carefully from one tree to another, back along his trail. Transferring from one tree to another required leaps that made his gorge leap into his throat, but he succeeded, and in the third tree back, settled himself as comfortably as he could upon a thick branch close to the trunk of the tree, got his bow out and waited.

He had discovered over time that Men never expected to find an orc up in a tree. This peculiar oversight of theirs had saved his life upon more than once occasion. Now he listened for the approaching footsteps of his enemies and felt anticipation as well as trepidation. With any luck at all, he would be able to kill both of them as they passed below before they were any the wiser. And then perhaps he could rest for a bit.

***

Hethlin was beginning to stagger and slow, and Mablung seethed in frustration, for they were falling farther and farther behind. Finally, she had to stop, bent over as she had been before, her breath coming in rasping pants. He tried to calm himself and be patient with her.

"Do you need a moment?" The girl nodded, then gestured to him and waved him on.

"No, I'll not leave you. But I'm going to check up ahead a little way, make sure we're still on the right track. Come on when you're able." She nodded once more, and Mablung moved forward, seeking out the trail.

***

Up on his leafy perch, the orc grinned as the Ranger came in view. The older and the more dangerous one to his way of reckoning, and the Man was alone. He spared a moment's concern for the location of the younger one, but figured he could not be far away and that he would come running when his companion fell. It was actually better for the orc this way--he was not a great shot, and this way, he would not have to shoot in haste.

Ever so carefully, so as not to cause any revealing rustle of leaves, the orc scout nocked and drew.

***

Having caught her breath, Hethlin straightened up and started after Mablung. She could hear the Ranger a little way ahead, and her jaw clenched in determination. She would not become a hindrance! Not after all his kindness to her! He had not gone far, and it took but a moment's jog to bring him into sight once more.

An owl flew from left to right overhead, and her eyes followed it automatically. Eagles and hawks and owls were creatures that had significance to her family, or so her father had always said. They brought luck, and she smiled a little as she watched the bird soar soundlessly by. Then the smile froze, and her heart thudded painfully in her aching chest.

A clot of blackness was in one of the trees above the trail, and it moved as she watched. There was only one thing it could be. The orc was far cleverer than they had expected. It had gone high and Mablung was oblivious to its presence. She fumbled for an arrow, and knew that she would not be able to shoot it in time. A desperate, wordless shriek of warning burst from her lips.

  
Startled by the young Man's scream, the orc's arm jerked as he released, and the Ranger below him, also startled, jumped and spun. The two movements were enough to make the arrow go wide and thud into the ground beside the Man. Stifling a curse, the orc looked around the tree and found the younger Ranger staring straight up at him, and nocking an arrow. The older Man, who still seemed unsure of his location, was no longer the greater threat. The scout hastened to ready a second shaft.

  
Hethlin's hands were shaking as she nocked the arrow, partly from exhaustion and partly from fear. She knew that the orc must be readying an arrow for her even as she did for him. Incongruously, at that moment a memory came over her from a more peaceful time.

_"When someone surprises you," her father had said one day, when they were resting after a game of Skulk-and-Hide in the woods on the slopes above their home, "don't try to get fancy, don't try to aim. Get a shot off as fast as you can. Rattle them. Then make your **second** shot count."_

Calmed by the memory, she did as she had been taught, drawing and releasing almost without aiming at all, at the black blot above her. The arrow came closer than she had any right to expect, slicing through the leaves near the orc. He uttered a guttural curse, but by then her hands had steadied, flying through the motions she knew so well, nocking, drawing, and this time aiming squarely at the shadow of his body. She knew even as she released it that the shot was good.

  
The young Ranger's first arrow indeed rattled the orc, causing him to fumble and drop the shaft he'd been readying, and the moment he did so, he knew that he was done, even before the second arrow pierced him, driving up under his ribs and into his heart. His dreams of glory fell into darkness with him. He never felt his body hit the ground.

  
As the orc's body thudded onto the forest floor, Mablung leaped over, sword in hand to finish it off, but found the effort unnecessary. The intruder was quite dead. Shaken himself by the close call, he looked over at his companion, who was staring with wide eyes blankly back at him, pale and shivering, her bow held laxly, seemingly forgotten in her hand.

"That was well-done, Hethlin, well-done indeed," he said, and not knowing that she was hearing his words spoken in another voice entirely, was worried when she began to weep.

Moving slowly, so as not to alarm her, he came over and after a moment's hesitation, took her carefully into his arms. During all his nursing of her, he had never done so before, for she had not permitted such things, but she suffered him to do so now, even dropping her head onto his shoulder as she sobbed. A bit at a loss as to what to do, he settled for stroking her hair and speaking soft words of praise and encouragement.

Rather sooner than he had expected, she mastered herself, nodding to him, swallowing hard and stepping back out of his embrace. He prevented her wiping her nose on her sleeve by presenting her with a handkerchief from his belt pouch, which she accepted with an embarrassed bob of her head. Scrubbing at first her eyes, then her nose, she was giving it back to him when she suddenly froze, eyes widening. He saw her stare due east, sniffing the wind, and it came to him then as well, but as a drift of noise--footsteps heavier than even the worst Ranger's, lots of them, and guttural grumbling. There was a shadow under the trees in that direction, and even as he saw it, a cry arose and he knew that they had been seen in turn.

The scout, it seemed, had not been alone. He did not know how the orc had infiltrated Henneth-Annun so successfully, nor how it had arranged this rendezvous with its fellows. But he did know what he was going to do, and grabbed Hethlin by the arm. She stared back at him with wild, panicked eyes.

"RUN!" he cried, and did.


	5. Chapter Five

Boromir, Faramir and the Rangers made somewhat better time than Hethlin and Mablung had, for the first two hunters had not been attempting to hide their trail in any way, and it was fairly easy for Damrod to follow them even in the moonlit dark. The second party was heading uphill at a steady clip when they heard the scream echo faintly through the silent forest. Faramir raised his hand, and they all halted, straining their ears, but could hear nothing more.

"Let's pick up the pace, Rangers," was all he said, but they resumed moving at the trot with an increased sense of urgency. Boromir, who was a tall man and strong, and one who wore harness almost every day and was thus well-accustomed to it, nonetheless cast an envious glance at his younger brother. Faramir, his face grave, jogged along lithely, neither so well protected nor so encumbered as Boromir was.

"Do you think the orc overcame Mablung?" he asked.

"There's no way of knowing," Faramir replied, not even out of breath though they were steadily climbing. The line that creased his brow when he was worried was quite visible in the dim light. "I deem it unlikely, but not impossible. I hope not, for the girl's sake."

"If we get her out of this, I want her on her way to Dol Amroth as soon as possible, orc incursions or not," Boromir declared.

Faramir nodded. "I agree, brother. With or without Mablung, I promise you I'll send her as soon as we get her back."

"Why is it that women are always so disruptive?" the Captain-General panted rhetorically after a moment. "Look at her--barely out of childhood, and already she has you concealing things from me, and your whole command in an uproar."

Faramir gave his brother a sidelong look. "In all fairness to the girl, Boromir, the orc put my command into an uproar. Hethlin is no trouble--most of the time, we hardly know she's there. As soon as she was back on her feet, she tried to start earning her keep. She fletches arrows, does laundry, and tends to the wounded when the patrols are out. A prideful child, for all of her silence."

"She'll fit in well enough at Dol Amroth then. Uncle appreciates people who have integrity, and he's the one best suited to sort out her pride and silence and all the rest of it. I wish him joy of her."

Staring intently into the silver-shot darkness, Faramir's expression was grim. "I just hope that she has the opportunity to find joy at all."

***

Terror gave new strength to the girl's exhausted legs, and Mablung's hand beneath her elbow helped tow her along as they fled downhill at breakneck pace, the orcs howling mockingly behind them. Every so often, an arrow would hiss by them, but none came close enough for concern. Either shooting on the run was not a skill these orcs possessed, or they were intentionally driving their quarry. Perhaps they knew of their companion's mission, and now that he was slain, were hoping to pursue the Rangers straight back to their refuge.

Mablung, who knew every rock and tree of this land, was not about to let that happen, even if it meant that both he and Hethlin would perish. Henneth-Annun's secret was safe, now that the orc scout was dead, and he was not going to imperil it again. He was about to bear left and to the south, moving away from both the refuge and any possible patrols, when he heard a most welcome signal call, and bore a bit to the right instead.

"Reinforcements!" he gasped joyfully to the girl. "Just a little further now!" The desperation on her face gave way to a faintly hopeful look, and she ran a bit faster. 

***

"Orcs, my lords! Do you hear them?" Damrod exclaimed. Faramir nodded, and threw up a hand to signal a halt. The enemy's ponderous crashing through the underbrush was quite audible, as well as their quarrelsome, mocking calls. The two Rangers exchanged a long look, and Boromir laid a hand upon his brother's shoulder.

"They are both dead, aren't they?" Faramir sighed, and the muscle in his jaw tightened.

"Most likely. But give a call anyway, Damrod, just in case they are out there." The Ranger pursed his lips and whistled, paused for a moment, then repeated the call. The other Rangers were readying bows and loosening swords.

"Shall we pursue, sir?" Damrod asked when he had finished. Faramir shook his head and smiled dryly. 

"There's no need, lieutenant. Listen. They are coming right towards us." Another, closer sound of running feet was suddenly discernible above the orc clamor, and arrows were nocked and drawn.

"RANGER!" a hoarse voice shouted. "Ranger coming in! DON'T SHOOT!" Mablung came into view, pulling Hethlin along with him. The Rangers lowered their bows and raised a cheer of welcome. He staggered to a halt before Faramir, who regarded him coolly for a long moment.

"Did you kill the orc, lieutenant?"

"No sir." Faramir frowned faintly, then his eyebrows shot up as Mablung continued. "Hethlin did."

His gaze then turned to her. "Indeed? Then we all owe her thanks. But time enough for that tale later. It is good to see you well, Hethlin." The girl bobbed her head quickly before staring at Boromir curiously. "How many are there, Mablung?"

"Not sure, Captain. A lot, at least a dozen, probably more. And they're hot on our heels." The Rangers looked to their Captain expectantly. Faramir took a quick look around. 

"Back the way we came a bit--there's that rocky outcropping just off the track. We'll put our backs to that." Nods and murmurs of assent came from the men, and they began to move quickly back towards the designated area.

Boromir came up beside the girl, took the sword-belt down from his shoulder and gave it to her as she gave him a wary stare. "I understand that this is yours, Hethlin. We'll look after you, but why don't you carry it?" With a bashful nod, she fastened it around her waist, then moved to Mablung and offered him his dagger back, which he accepted with a smile and thank-you, laying a hand about her shoulders to give her a reassuring squeeze. As the noise of the orc-patrol grew louder, she began to tremble again, and her face was strained and fearful.

"We won't let them have you again, lass, I promise you that," he whispered to her. She bowed her head, and her hand went to the hilt of her father's sword. Mablung laid his own hand upon it. "No, Hethlin, you won't have to fight again. You have done enough for one night. Stay back behind us." Faramir looked over at them as they approached the great grey rock.

"Do as Mablung says, Hethlin. I promise you as well that we will keep you safe." The girl stared at the Captain's face searchingly for a moment, then, seemingly reassured by what she found there, sighed and relaxed a little.

Under Faramir's direction, the Rangers formed into a rough semi-circle, their backs to the rock, the girl within their midst, the Captain and his brother in the center of the line. The Rangers raised their bows. The orcs could be seen now, they were almost upon them.

"Give them two volleys if you can as they come in," Faramir commanded his men, his voice utterly calm. There was a slight creak of bows being drawn. Hethlin pressed herself back against the cool, damp rock. A hiss of arrows flying through the air was answered by an ululating war-cry as the orcs closed with the Rangers and battle was joined.

***

All of the Rangers got off one shot before having to go to their swords, and the Captain and his lieutenants managed to make two. The patrol was a large one, but at least six of them fell before they could close with the Rangers. The orcs, knowing their shooting was inferior but numbers superior, did not try to shoot back, but rather sought to close as quickly as possible, that they might dispatch their foes hand-to-hand. Swords to the front rank, their spearmen in the second, they crashed against the Rangers in a wave that would have overwhelmed a lesser enemy. But the Rangers of Ithilien, few though they were, were doughty, keen warriors, and they had both their captain and Boromir of Gondor with them.

The prowess of the two brothers was something that Hethlin, terrified as she was, could not appreciate. Crouched against the outcropping, her right hand clenched around the sword hilt. The stench and clangor and vile voices had caused memories of the worst night of her life to flood her mind, and she was only dimly aware of the battle that raged around her. Whimpering, she fought against the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. Her other hand strayed down over the scabbard, and her fingertips brushed over the eagle and star tooled into the leather, the only ornamentation upon the otherwise plain sheath, quite unlike the elaborately chased one that housed the armored man's sword. She closed her eyes and another, more pleasant memory came to her then.

_She stood proudly, holding her father's bow and quiver, his cloak thrown over her arm, as he saddled his tall, shaggy horse by lantern light. Her mother held his large saddlebags, filled so full that they bulged._

"Bandages. Unguent. Brandy. My journeybread, not that you'll get to eat any of that yourself...."

Halaran grinned, his craggy face almost handsome for a moment. "I can't help it if everyone loves your journeybread, my sweet. Did you make it with the nuts in it?"

Liranael sighed and nodded. "Of course. Would I dare to do otherwise? A change of clothes. Whetstone and steel. Extra fletches and thread. Is that everything?"

Halaran turned from tightening the girth, and snaked an arm around his wife. "Everything except the most important thing," and he bent his head and kissed her. Liranael's arms slid up around his neck as well, her fingers tangling in his rough black hair. The kiss lengthened, and ten-year-old Hethlin rolled her eyes and sighed. Her parents broke their embrace to regard her with amusement.

"Are we boring you, chick?" her father asked.

"Don't you ever get tired of doing that?" she grumbled. "You were kissing last night before I went to bed, and you kept me up half the night thumping around downstairs." Liranael gave her an odd look then, her cheeks slightly red, but Halaran roared.

"No, we don't get tired of it, but I apologize for disturbing your rest," he replied gravely, his eyes twinkling. Hethlin handed him his cloak, and scowled.

"Father, why do you have to leave again?" she complained. "You only just got back yesterday."

"You know about the brigands, chick. I went to the White City to ask the Steward if he would send us help, and he refused us. But the brigands are still here. So I and Merelan, and the Dorthansons and some of the others are going to get together and see what we can do about it."

"But why do you have to go? You already made that trip for them. Can't they do anything without you?" Halaran frowned, the warning frown that said she was pushing her luck.

"You are being selfish, Heth. Stop it. You know why I have to go--I'm a Ranger, and that's what I do. I protect people."

"Why can't the people protect themselves?" Hethlin's next question was genuinely curious and not a complaint, so her father did not take offense, and answered her seriously.

"Not everybody can, chick. We all have different gifts and a poor world it would be if it were filled with only warriors! Some folk are harts, and some are hounds. And some are wolves. There comes a point in most everyone's life when they have to decide what they are." She pondered this while he took his cloak from her and fastened it, accepted the bow and quiver and slung them on, then bent and kissed the top of her head.

"Take care of your mother," he said, indicating the knife at her belt. "If the two of you see anyone, don't worry about the house, get on up the mountain into the caves and lie low." Liranael nodded, and they followed him as he led the horse outside and mounted.

"Valar guard and guide you, husband," Liranael murmured, and he leaned down to kiss her once more.

"Valar guard and guide the two of you as well," Halaran replied when he had done, and with a cheerful wave, turned and rode off into the growing light. Wife and daughter watched him go, Liranael's arm draped consolingly about Hethlin's shoulders.

"I think I am a hound," Hethlin declared, and her mother chuckled. "I want to be a Ranger when I grow up." Liranael looked down at her and sighed.

"'Tis not what I would wish for you, daughter, though in truth, being the wife who waits for the Ranger is no easy task either. Come, there are chores that need doing."

  
_I think I am a hound._ That old declaration echoing through her mind, Hethlin opened her eyes and looked about. The battle was still raging furiously., and the Rangers were hard beset. She could smell blood in the air--one of the Rangers had a wound in his upper arm. The Captain and his brother were fighting side-by-side with the ease of men who had often done so together, but even as she watched, a spear thrust forward into the space between them and beyond, and Faramir jerked and cried out. Dismay clutched at her heart, but when Boromir called out, "Brother! Are you well?", the Captain replied steadily enough.

"I am well. It is not so bad, Boromir." He kept his feet and continued to fight, though after a moment Hethlin noted a shadow that began to deepen along his side. She berated herself silently for her cowardice. What would her father think, should he have seen her letting these men risk themselves for her so? He would think she had chosen the path of the hart, one who relied upon others to protect her as no Ranger ever would.

Was she to cower for the rest of her life? This was not like her first battle, where she had happened upon the orc patrol armed with nothing but a dagger. Her father had taught her with wooden blades, promising her a true sword of her own upon her eighteenth birthday, but of course that had never arrived. And she had been alone then. It had not been so hard to take her captive. Here there were others to help and support her. She had even killed an orc but a little while earlier. And now she held her father's sword in her hand.......

The Ranger to the other side of the Captain's brother staggered back suddenly, blood welling from between the fingers of the hand he'd clamped over his leg. Quickly, before she could give herself too much time to think about it, Hethlin drew her blade and stepped into the breach.

She feared that she would be unable to strike even one blow, but when the black, corroded orc blade swung for her neck, the arms that her father had trained since she was old enough to wield a twig did their work and swept up in a proper parry. The force of the orc's blow jarred her wrists, but she was able to hold him off and the fear began to seep off of her as if it were sinking away into the ground.

Without her telling them to, her arms then flowed into an attack which the orc parried in his turn, and before he could swing again, her blade disengaged and she opened his belly with a backstroke, the ancient sword cleaving his armor as if it were paper. He folded over himself, screaming, and another orc stepped forward, its foul face twisted into a snarl. Hethlin curled her lip, bared her teeth, and snarled right back at him.

***

_Hello, what's this?_ Boromir thought, casting a glance to his left. The Ranger there had fallen, dragging himself back against the rock, and the Captain General had thought that it was one of his fellow Rangers moving over into the wounded man's place. Realizing that it was the girl instead, he considered thrusting her back out of harm's way for a moment. Then the orc died.

There were those who named Boromir the best warrior in Gondor. He did not necessarily agree with that opinion, he knew whom he considered the best swordsman, but he was certainly extremely proficient, and the average orc was no match for him. So it put him in no peril to spare a bit of his attention for the green warrior at his side. It was something he had done often among his own men, for a little extra care early on sometimes ensured the survival of a promising warrior long enough that he could grow into his promise.

When she exchanged a flurry of blows with her second opponent before opening his throat with the tip of her blade, he decided she needed no help from him after all. So he turned his attention back to his own concerns--namely, finishing off the orcs as swiftly as possible so that he could see to his brother.

There were a pile of orc bodies in front of Faramir, but his arm was slowing, the force of his strokes abating and his face was pale and strained. Boromir redoubled his efforts and before long, the last orc was dead. He turned with concern to his brother to find him calmly issuing orders. The damp dark patch soaking through his tunic was quite large now, but he was ignoring it.

"Mablung, see to the wounded. Damrod, whistle us up some help. Surely some of our folk heard that racket. Captain-General," he continued, turning his attention to his brother, "We will add to the ever-growing list of things we will discuss later exactly why it was you let Hethlin into the battle line."

"No brother, we won't," Boromir disagreed, watching the color drain suddenly from Faramir's face as the last of the battle fever left him and his knees finally buckled. "Mablung! Over here!" Mablung hurried over as Boromir eased Faramir to the ground, and Damrod and the other Rangers came over as well, forming a circle about their captain, their faces concerned. The girl, who had cleaned her blade upon an orc's cloak and sheathed it, came over as well, and seemed equally worried, but she faced outward and put her bow at the ready. Boromir noted this with surprised approval, then turned his attention back to his brother, grasping his hand reassuringly as Mablung removed Faramir's leather jerkin, pulled up his shirt and examined the wound with eyes and hands and nose. Faramir hissed in pain.

"I don't think that he's gut-riven," he declared at last, and Boromir sagged a bit in relief, for such would have been a death sentence, "but I need light to tell how bad this is. We need to get him back to the falls." Mablung looked at the downed Ranger with the leg wound and at his captain, and frowned. "We'll need two stretchers, men, see to it." He then belatedly looked at Boromir in apology. Boromir shook his head.

"You and Damrod know your own business best. See to it, lieutenants, and I'll see to my brother." The Rangers nodded, and Damrod began whistling bird calls while the Rangers tended to their wounded and looked to see if the orc spears could be used to fabricate stretchers. 

Of the six Rangers who had come forth with them, two were injured, one walking wounded, so four of them were going to be involved with carrying the wounded back--not a good thing strategically if they encountered any more trouble, but it couldn't be helped. Damrod brought over a roll of bandages for Mablung, who stripped Faramir's shirt off of him, wadded it up to make a pad, bound it firmly into place with the bandages, then replaced his leather jerkin over the top for warmth. The Ranger Captain was starting to shiver, and Boromir carefully wrapped his arms around him, cursing the warm evening that had caused him to leave his cloak at the refuge. One of the other Rangers came over and proffered his, and Boromir took it gratefully, draping it around Faramir's shoulders.

"I can walk," Faramir protested. "You don't have to carry me." Mablung gave him a very dry look.

"Just because you can doesn't mean you should," he declared. "Now lie quiet!" The girl looked over at them for a moment before returning to her vigil.

They were almost ready to depart when more bird calls indicated that Damrod's signals for help had been answered. Another six man patrol showed up, and the additional manpower expedited things enormously. Mablung sent a runner ahead to Henneth-Annun, demanding boiled water and a lot of light against their return, and the new Rangers helped carry the wounded. One of them, noticing Hethlin's bow and sword, grinned and said, "You look like a Ranger, Hethlin." The girl bobbed her head in acknowledgment in that nervous way she had.

"Fights like a Ranger, too," said one of Damrod's original six men. "Killed two tonight that I saw."

"Three," amended Mablung. "She shot the orc scout when he had the drop on me. Now enough of this chatter!" For the lieutenant could see that the Captain-General was regarding them all with a furrowed brow. The girl said nothing as usual, but had worked her way around the party till she was walking by the Captain's stretcher near Mablung. She looked at Faramir, then gave him an imploring look, and it didn't take a scholar to know what she wanted.

"I won't know how bad this is until we get him back, lass, but I'm thinking that though he's lost more blood than might be good for him, he'll be all right. I'll certainly do my best."

"You'd better," Faramir remarked weakly from the stretcher, "though I don't think I'll be requiring any of your more decorative stitching." The Rangers chuckled, and Mablung glared balefully at his captain. Faramir lifted a hand and gestured to the girl. Hethlin leaned over, and he took her hand in his.

"I did not thank you earlier for saving my lieutenant, Hethlin. Disrespectful though he is, he does have his uses," another chuckle from the men, "and I appreciate what you did." The girl flushed dark enough to see even in the moonlight, and nodded. But when his eyes closed and he sagged into the litter, she did not release his hand.

  



	6. Chapter Six

The news that the Captain had been wounded had Henneth-Annun in an uproar by the time the patrols returned. The stretchers were carried down into the main chamber and there Mablung found that a table had been set up close to where torches were set into the wall, and that several filled oil lanterns stood ready upon another one.

"Don't tell me you're going to do this out here!" Faramir protested softly. Mablung indicated that his stretcher bearers should lift him onto the table, and his brother moved to his head and stroked his hair. Hethlin, who had let go his hand when they carried him down the stairs, pressed back against the wall nearby where she could watch but be out of the way.

"More light and more room for what needs to be done, sir," Mablung said apologetically. He indicated three of the Rangers. "You and you and you, hold the lanterns up. You three," and he gestured to three more, "hold lanterns over there for whoever is stitching the others. The rest of you go sit down and be quiet." Murmuring amongst themselves, the Rangers did as they were bidden. Boromir's escort came over to ascertain that he was in one piece, whereupon he chased them away as well. 

With a bit of a clatter, a couple of Rangers sloshed their way cautiously down the stairs holding a largish, steaming cauldron on a pole.

"Teldric had some water on for bathing in the morning," they said, "So when we got word, we brought it on. How's the Captain?"

"I'm finding that out right now," said Mablung, dipping out a smaller bowl of the hot water to wash his hands and arms with. When he had finished, he took another small bowl and a cloth, and moved to Faramir's side.

"This is going to hurt," he warned his commander, who closed his eyes and nodded.

"That's the way," Boromir murmured reassuringly. "Just don't look at what he's doing." Moving around the corner of the table to the side opposite Mablung, he took his younger brother's finer-boned hands in his own big ones and held them firmly. Mablung began to wash the wound, and Faramir jerked and bit back a cry. Thin-lipped, the lieutenant continued his cleansing and examination. The Captain quivered under his touch, but made not another sound, and forced himself to remain still. His brother held him tightly until Mablung finished, releasing his hands when he slumped in relief, and giving his pale, sweaty face a gentle pat. "Are you all right, Faramir?"

"I am well enough," he whispered after a moment.

The lieutenant cocked an eyebrow at that patent untruth and looked down at Faramir.

"Feel free to faint at any time, Captain--it would make my work easier."

"Would that I could!" Faramir replied shakily, with a feeble smile. "Unfortunately, I cannot command such things. How bad is it?"

"You're not gut-pierced, or you wouldn't have stayed on your feet as long as you did. But there's a lot of muscle torn, and a lot of stitching to be done, and I've no poppy left--I used it all on poor Modrien last week. A young fellow who _was_ gut-ripped," Mablung added in explanation to the Captain-General. "Poor lad, he was strong, and it took quite a bit to ease his pain until he passed." Boromir nodded, and he turned his attention back to his patient. "What I am about to do is going to hurt a lot more than what I just did, Captain. Can you bear it?"

"Have you any strong drink?" Boromir asked before Faramir could respond. "He hasn't much tolerance for it. We could put him out easily enough that way." The look his younger brother gave him then was indescribable--an odd mixture of pain, annoyance, amusement and resignation.

Mablung grumbled, "You're the ones drank all the wine the other night. I've got some straight alcohol for cleansing wounds, but I'm going to need all of it for this."

Faramir raised his voice then, and somehow managed to keep it from shaking. "Damrod! Over here!" The other lieutenant obeyed, and looked down at his commander with worry and curiosity commingled. "I know for a fact that you've some peach brandy you've been hoarding. Would you proffer it up in a good cause?"

Damrod wrinkled his nose. "Of course, sir. But you might not want to use it. It's not like I've been saving it for a special occasion. More like I've been trying to get the nerve up to drink it. My cousin made it, and it's awful stuff."

"However bad it is, it is bound to be better than the alternative."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Damrod warned, but went to fetch it and a tankard. When he returned, he handed the bottle to Boromir, who promptly slopped a large quantity of the brandy into the tankard, then lifted his brother's shoulders that he might drink, and held the tankard to his lips.

"Drink as much as you can as fast as you can," he instructed Faramir, who looked as if he wanted to say something, but after a moment merely nodded, and began to drink. At the first sip, he got the most peculiar expression, as if his face were trying to curl in upon itself.

"Gah! That is absolutely vile!"

"Told you so," said Damrod, not without sympathy. Boromir held the cup to his lips remorselessly.

"Drink all of it, brother. Now." Faramir gagged a couple of times, and had to stop for breath several more but eventually complied. He sighed in relief, somewhat green-faced when he had done, but groaned in dismay when Boromir promptly refilled the cup.

"Again."

"I can't, Boromir. I'll be sick."

"No you won't. I won't let you. Drink it."

Up went his eyebrow. "You won't let me? How.... do .....you propose to do that?" Boromir did not deign to explain, but merely held the cup up to his lips once more. With a shudder, Faramir began to drink again, but stopped when he'd imbibed about two-thirds of the tankard. The green color in his face had increased, and he was beginning to look unfocused.

"....Truly....Boromir....can't drink any more." The Captain-General relented, and laid him back down upon the table again. Looking over to where Mablung was preparing his needles, thread and knives, Boromir took his brother's hand and suggested, "Now would be a very good time for you to pass out."

"Trying......lips are numb."

"That's a start. Perhaps it will spread."

"Hope....so." Faramir's head lolled to one side, and his eyes rolled up. Mablung studied him for a few moments.

"How much has he got in him?" he asked Boromir.

"Half the bottle."

"We'll give it a little time to work. Hethlin, you still back there?" The girl stepped forward and touched his shoulder. "I know you're tired, but I want you to get my poulticing herbs out of the back room, put some in one of the small bowls, and mix some of this hot water in it. Can you do that?" With a sober nod, Hethlin went into the alcove to do as she had been bidden. Boromir looked after her curiously.

"Did she really save your life as you said out there?" Mablung threaded yet another needle.

"Certainly did. Orc had opened a lead on us, then backtracked and went up a tree. Waited for us to come under so he could shoot us. And I did, and was very nearly hit. But Hethlin had stopped for a moment to catch her breath, and somehow she saw him. Shot him pretty as you please."

"She did well enough with the sword too when she was fighting beside me. A peculiar young woman."

"That she is," Mablung agreed, then gently rolled Faramir's eyelid open. "I think he's pretty well under, sir, but you hold him in case he isn't. I'm ready to start."

***

Two hours later, Faramir, stitched, bandaged and poulticed, was settled in his bed in the back alcove under the watchful eyes of his older brother and second-in-command. Mablung felt his forehead, which was dewed with sweat, and frowned.

"He's already heating up. I was afraid of this. Dirty orcs and their filthy weapons." He went to the curtain and called out into the main chamber for someone to bring him some of the last of the boiled water, which had long since cooled, and a cloth. When he returned with the items, Boromir asked, "Should we try to get him to Minas Tirith?"

"No sir. The journey would harm more than help him, even with the folk at the Houses of Healing at the end of it." The Captain-General sighed, then gave Mablung a very intent look.

"Lieutenant. Tell me truly. Is my brother going to be all right?" Out of the corner of his eye he spied the girl, who was crouched in the corner with her arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes heavy-lidded with weariness, but listening intently nonetheless.

Mablung sighed. "The spear did not touch anything vital, my lord, and though he was cut to the bone, he was not so sorely wounded that I could not stitch him up. But he lost more blood than is healthy, and you know that wound-fever often kills where the wound doesn't. The Captain is strong though, and I believe he will be well in time. But he should be watched tonight."

"Very well then. Since he is not so badly off now, I'll watch first so that you can get some sleep. I'm better rested in any event." Mablung nodded, and rolled his shoulders tiredly.

"I'll not deny that some rest will be welcome, sir."

"Where does the girl sleep?"

"In here. She has a bedroll, which she should be using. Now, Hethlin." The girl looked up at Mablung and nodded, then rose slowly to get her blankets and spread them in the corner. Her every movement spoke of extreme weariness, and Boromir remembered that she had been deathly ill herself not so very long ago. After a moment's hesitation, and a glance in Boromir's direction, she took off her tunic and boots, and slid under the covers in her shirt and breeches. Almost as soon as her head sank onto her folded arms, she was asleep.

"Wake me when the watch changes, my lord," Mablung requested quietly. "A good night to you."

"And to you, lieutenant," Boromir replied, dipping the cloth into the water and bathing his brother's face gently. Mablung slipped out soundlessly, leaving the Captain-General to his thoughts.

***

Faramir's fever rose to an impressive level and he remained unconscious all the next day. Nor did it show any signs of abating as the next night fell. Boromir, who had sent half of his men off to his command to inform them that he was staying at Henneth-Annun for a few days more, watched Mablung grow quiet, and grew concerned himself.

"Should I send to my father?" he asked the lieutenant as they supped together in the small, stuffy alcove. Hethlin was gently bathing Faramir's face and chest as they ate--they had all taken turns throughout the day.

"It might not be a bad idea," Mablung admitted, "though I won't truly start to worry unless the fever doesn't break tonight. Would the Steward come here?" he asked curiously.

Boromir shrugged. "I don't know. If he knew Faramir were dying, yes. If he just thinks he's hurt, probably not. Father doesn't go about much these days, though there's nothing wrong with his health. Uncle, on the other hand, would be up here in a heartbeat, and he might actually be in town for already for autumn Council. I'll send word to them both."

"Your uncle? That would be the Prince?"

"Yes. He's very close to my brother."

"I wondered. The Captain was muttering something about him this morning."

"Yes, I heard some of that." And the pleas to their father as well. One of the most distressing things about this to Boromir had been the way the fever had stripped Faramir of his usual reticence. He had not been loud, but Boromir knew that things had been said which Faramir would have preferred had been kept private. Though he did not think that any of the men outside had been privy to any of it, and looking upon the Ranger lieutenant's concerned face, the Captain-General knew that any secret of Faramir's would be safe enough with him. And the Valar knew the girl certainly wasn't talking to anyone......

"Heth, leave off for a bit, and go get yourself some supper," Mablung ordered her. "And when you've finished, get some sleep. I might need you later tonight." She looked at him and Boromir gravely for a moment, then nodded and went out into the main cavern.

"Faramir wanted the girl to go to Dol Amroth with you when the opportunity presented itself," Boromir told the lieutenant quietly when she had gone. "We were both working on the details, and had completely forgotten that Uncle was due in Minas Tirith. So the thing becomes much easier--we have only to get her to Minas Tirith, and the Prince will take things from there." Mablung frowned.

"Are you sure that's the best thing for her, sir?"

"Faramir thinks so. Uncle is a very kind man, Mablung, and if he knows that she is a ward of Faramir's he will take very good care of her. And my cousin Lothiriel might take an interest as well--I think that she's a little older than Hethlin, but they are close in age."

"Don't think Hethlin'd make much of a lady's maid, sir, begging the Captain-General's pardon. She was raised to the forest." Boromir shrugged.

"Uncle will sort her out somehow. You must admit, it's better than the alternatives." There was little the Ranger could say in response to that. Having finished his meal (and he was now reduced to regular Ranger rations because of his extended stay), Boromir went out to deal with his dishes, then returned and ordered Mablung to get some sleep as well.

"Faramir will need you most in the small hours of the morning, lieutenant. We both know that. He's quiet enough now, so I'll deal with him for a while." Mablung made no argument, but went to seek his rest. The girl returned to the alcove, and after giving Boromir another of her uneasy looks, starting laying her bedroll out once more. She had been given some time alone in the alcove that morning, that she might bathe and change clothes, and looked more presentable than when the Captain-General had first met her. He had been watching her off and on all day, rather touched by the way she had carefully returned the two books Faramir had lent her to his collection after the Rangers had brought her pack and Mablung's back from where they'd been camping. And at one point, he'd caught himself assessing her, not as a woman, but as he might analyze one of his young recruits. Strong wrists. Good balance. Moves well. Light, but fast.

Smiling at that recollection, he looked over to where she had crawled under her blankets.

"Hethlin." Her head snapped up, and she regarded him warily.

"I haven't told you because we've been busy, but I thought you should know. You carried yourself very well last night. I've known stout lads who did far worse. I think your father would have been proud of you."

Surprise washed over her countenance, followed by a deep blush. Then she ducked her head, and burrowed back under her covers, turning her back to him so that he could not see her face. Boromir grinned, picked up the cloth that floated in the bowl, and began to bathe his brother once more.

***

As matters turned out, neither he nor Mablung got any sleep that night, for shortly after dinner, Faramir's fever began to rise once more and he became delirious again. The two of them spent hours bathing, restraining and soothing him. Mablung brewed up some very strong febrifuge and they tried to spoon that into him with limited success, even when it was sweetened with honey. He tossed and muttered and called out to his father, his uncle, Boromir and once, even his mother.

At one point he was, from the gist of his murmurings, caught in the wave-dream that had haunted him all of his life. Countless times from childhood on, Boromir had gone to his room and soothed him out of it, so he knew of the frequency with which it occurred, but he was nonetheless startled when Mablung, who after all had been with Faramir for over a decade, tssssked and said, "That again, huh?"

"You know about his dreams?" Boromir asked the lieutenant curiously. The Ranger shrugged.

"How could I not? He has them often enough, though I've never understood why he gets them."

"It's our Dol Amroth blood," Boromir explained, restraining Faramir's restlessly moving arm with one hand while he bathed him with the other. "The lords of Dol Amroth are dreamers. 'Tis said it is because of the Elven blood they carry. Grandfather had them. So does Uncle." And what a surprise that discovery had been for Boromir, when, on an overnight hunting trip with his uncle many years ago, he had wakened to Imrahil's crying out in much the same way his brother did. The dreams had always seemed such a intrinsic part of Faramir's grave, inward-turning nature that the realization that urbane, extroverted, cheerful Imrahil suffered them too had struck him as decidedly odd.

"Do you get them, my lord? If you don't mind my asking." Boromir smiled.

"No, I've been lucky. The gift or curse, whatever you want to call it, passed me by."

"The men talk all the time about whether it's a gift or curse. The Captain said nothing's ever really clear, though he saved some lives with it once."

"Did he really? What happened?" Boromir asked, intrigued. They had stripped Faramir completely at this point, and Mablung was bathing his lower regions and legs in an attempt to get the fever down. Faramir did not appreciate their ministrations, and squirmed in a most unhelpful manner.

"He had a bad night, and tripled the strength of a patrol he was sending to the Crossroads the next morning. There was a lot of grumbling about it, for we'd seen no activity in the area, and it meant that some of the other lads had to pull double watches. Turned out there was a big band of orcs there. They'd have eaten the one patrol alive, but the large one was able to overcome them. The men kept quiet after that." Boromir chuckled.

"Do you know, I think that may be the first time I've ever heard about it actually being useful, though Uncle Imrahil said something once about putting into port ahead of a really bad storm. I'm content not to have the dreams, and any of the good or bad that go with them."

"Ah, but you're a sensible man, my lord. Here, lift his head so I can get some more of this tea down him. It's a wonder Hethlin can sleep through all this racket."

Boromir, who had just happened to catch the girl watching them a short time ago, said nothing. She had rolled back over to face the wall immediately when she realized that he had spied her out, but not before he saw the look of sick worry on her face.

***

A couple of hours before dawn, Faramir settled from his delirious thrashing into a quieter form of unrest, his fever still burning hotly. Mablung stood and stretched.

"You should get some rest while you can, my lord." Boromir stretched his legs out, but did not get up from the chair he had set at his brother's bedside.

"The same could be said for you, lieutenant." At that moment, there was a stirring in the corner and the girl untangled herself from her blankets. She came over, scrubbing her eyes on her sleeve and yawning. Blinking a couple of times, she pointed first at Mablung, than at the Captain-General, and folded her hands together alongside her head.

"Thank you, Heth, I think I will," Mablung responded, and she smiled a little, then gave Boromir a questioning look.

"I'll nap here, thank you, mistress," he replied, and she nodded, taking Mablung's abandoned chair on the other side of the bed. Looking down at Faramir, who wore nothing but a sheet draped lightly over him, her cheeks got a bit pink, but she picked up the cloth, wrung it out in the bowl, and began gently bathing his face.

"You may rest in confidence, my lord," Mablung commented on the way out the door. "Heth has watched wounded before. She will rouse us if there is any need."

Boromir did not share the lieutenant's faith in his protege, and had fully intended to stay awake and watch, but the girl's slow, gentle movements as she bathed his brother, and the dripping noise of the cloth being wrung out into the bowl had a lulling effect, and before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.

***

As if in mockery of his earlier statement, Boromir's sleep was full of dreams; disjointed, unconnected images that made no sense to him. What he thought at first was the darkness of the wave dream turned out to be instead a darkness covering the sky. He could hear a voice speaking, but could not make the words out. He saw his brother, in battle, in full armor, which baffled him for since Faramir had taken command of Ithilien, he had not worn full harness. He saw the girl, her face a mess of blood and tears. He saw many other things; faces and places he'd never known.

He woke rather abruptly with a nagging sense of unease and the distinct feeling that he had missed understanding something important. Keeping his eyes closed, Boromir listened to the bustle outside of the curtain. From the chatter of voices and clatter of wooden dishes, it sounded as if breakfast were being served. A moment later, he realized that he was hearing something else, something that sounded very much like the voice in his dream, but this time, he could understand what was said. The voice was low and a bit husky, and spoke slowly as if unsure of the words.

".....For many years Umbar was...in..vested....., but could not be taken because of the sea-power of Gondor. Cir...yaher son of....Ciryandil..... bided his time, and at last when he had gathered strength he came down from the north by sea and by land, and crossing the River...Harnen his armies.....utterly.....defeated the Men of the Harad, and their kings were... compelled.... to.....acknow...ledge the overlordship of Gondor. Ciryaher then took the name of Hyar...Hymar...Hymend...."

"Hyarmendacil. It means 'South-victor'," prompted a voice that made Boromir's eyes snap open in a hurry, for weak and weary though it was, it belonged to Faramir.

He saw his brother, black hair tousled and damp with sweat, but with eyes that were open and free of delirium, looking at the girl, who had a book in her hand, and was managing to look surprised, pleased and a bit frightened all at once. Faramir smiled gently at her for a moment, then turned his head slowly to regard his brother.

"What is the time, Boromir?"

"Judging from the sound of things, it's breakfast. You've been fevered for two days. Are you back with us now?" The Captain-General reached a hand to his brother's brow and found it cool.

"_Two days?_ Yes, I suppose I am back then, and not before time either, it would seem!" He attempted to push up on an elbow, and grimaced in pain. Boromir laid a hand upon his shoulder and pushed him back down.

"None of that, now! You're going to have to take it easy for a while." The girl got up at that point and soundlessly returned the book to Faramir's bookcase, then poured him a cup of water and returned with it, offering it to Boromir. He took it, lifted his brother's head, and helped him to drink, which Faramir did with a certain relish.

"Another one of those would not go amiss," he suggested, so his brother refilled the cup and repeated the process. The girl slipped quietly out past the curtain, and Boromir watched her go, suddenly realizing something.

"She was _reading_ to you!" Faramir smiled.

"Yes. When she was ill, I read to her. It seemed to help her sleep. She must have thought she should return the favor."

"But she was _talking_!"

"No-one ever said that she _couldn't_ talk, brother, just that she _wouldn't._ I think that we should not make a fuss about it--if she has more to say, she will do it in her own time." At that moment, Mablung walked in, and stopped short, surprised and pleased in his turn.

"Captain! Sir! It's good to see you back! Would you like some breakfast?"

Faramir considered this for a moment. "Hmmmmmm, I am hungry. How about some bacon and eggs?" His grin showed that he was well aware such fare was not possible in the fireless refuge. Mablung cocked an eyebrow.

"How about some nice, hot porridge instead? I'll have someone cook some over the brazier."

"That will serve." Suddenly wearied by all the conversation, he closed his eyes. Boromir brushed his hair away from his brow, and he smiled at his brother's touch.

"We'll get you cleaned up in a bit," Boromir told him, and he nodded.

"I would very much appreciate that."

The girl came back in then, chewing something, went to the washstand and began washing her hands. Faramir opened his eyes.

"Good morning, Hethlin," he said quietly. She turned about, towel in hand, and swallowed, then looked at him, his brother, Mablung, and back at him again. Her eyes grew vague, and she stared off into the distance for a moment, as if considering something profound. The three men watched her in anticipation. The silence stretched and stretched until it seemed almost interminable. Then she came back to herself, shuddered, and after a moment gave Faramir a tiny, shy smile.

"Good morning, Captain," she replied.

* * *

Author's Note--Heth's literary selection is from _Gondor and the Heirs of Anarion_, Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King. 


	7. Chapter Seven

August 3015--Hethlin stared curiously at the three blindfolded men the Rangers escorted into the refuge four days after Faramir's fever had broken. Like Boromir's guard, they were armored in bright hauberks, but there was something different about them, a special sort of attitude. They wore not the silver and sable of Gondor, but were clad instead in blue and silver, and their tabards bore a design of a silver ship shaped like a swan. White belts girded their waists, and cloaks of the same beautiful blue flowed down their backs. Their helms and greaves and vambraces all intricately etched, and they bore very fine swords at their sides. They were quite the fanciest folk she'd ever seen, and the Captain-General's men bristled a bit.  
  
"Well goodness me!" one of Boromir's escort called out, "Look who's slumming! Break out the good dishes, my lads--the Swan Knights have come to call!" There was some laughter from the Rangers, who were watching with interest, but the new arrivals, who were looking about curiously as their blindfolds were removed, did not take offense nor even seem to notice. Their lordly manners proclaimed them to be above such things. Their leader, a young man whose chiseled features, black hair and blue-grey eyes spoke of Numenorean blood, but who was a bit swarthier than usual, glanced about the chamber until his eyes lit upon Mablung. He moved towards him, his escort following, and bowed.  
  
"Lieutenant, I do not know if you remember or not, but we met in Minas Tirith some time ago, when Lord Faramir was in town for the Council. I am Lord Esteven, and currently in command of those of Prince Imrahil's men in residence at Minas Tirith." Mablung looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded.  
  
"I remember, my lord. What brings you all the way up here? Did the Prince send you?"  
  
"No, lieutenant, not exactly. Our escort told us on the way up here that Lord Boromir was still in residence. Is that so? Because if he is, I would have speech with him, or Lord Faramir if he is able." Mablung nodded, and rose from the table where he had been playing a half-hearted game of cards with a couple of other Rangers.  
  
"Lord Boromir is still here, and Lord Faramir is quite able."  
  
"He is better then? That is good news indeed." The Swan Knight smiled, and followed Mablung to the alcove's curtain. There, he turned to his escort and took from one of them a nail-studded leather case of some size before he entered into the small chamber.  
  
Hethlin, curious, suddenly moved to the shelves where the dishes were kept and caught up three tankards, filling them from a new keg of ale that had been brought up the day before. Anborn, sitting at a table nearby, and fletching arrows as usual looked up for a moment.  
  
"Smart," he said, and rising, moved over to assist her, quickly helping her to fill a large plate with a loaf of bread that had arrived with the ale, and slices of some of the first of the new apple crop and a very nice cheese. She then gathered the tankards in one hand, and the plate in the other, and went into the alcove.  
  
There, Faramir was sitting propped up against pillows in his bed with his brother at his side and the Swan Knight in the other chair, the case in his lap.  
  
"I am curious as to how you came to be up here, Esteven," he was saying as she entered. Boromir, seeing her arrival, expeditiously cleared the little table by grabbing the pile of books that covered it, and tossing them onto the bed. One looked as if it were going to slide onto the floor and both brothers reached for it at once, Faramir wincing in pain as he did so. Boromir glared at him, dextrously snagging the volume.  
  
"Would you stop that? I saw it. I know better than to let a book touch the floor in your presence." Faramir snorted, winced again and the Swan Knight suppressed a grin.   
  
"As to how I came here, my lord, I fear that I owe Lord Boromir an apology," Esteven said, giving Hethlin a nod as he took up one of the tankards she'd set down.  
  
"Thank you, lad." He took a sip and continued. "I do not know if you are aware of this, but Prince Imrahil has left a standing order that whoever is on duty in Minas Tirith is at your disposal should either of you have any need." The two brothers looked at each other, and some sort of unspoken communication seemed to pass between them. Both of them smiled then at exactly the same moment in exactly the same way, and for just an instant looked very much alike.  
  
"Trust Uncle," Boromir said at last, and Faramir nodded. "But what have you to apologize for, Esteven?" The Prince's man made a graceful gesture.  
  
"Your letter was addressed to the Prince, my lord, but the soldier who brought it said the matter was urgent. As he had not yet arrived in Minas Tirith, and is not expected for at least a week, and because of his standing order, I took it upon myself to read the letter, that I might be able to render aid if necessary. But it was not my correspondence, and I apologize for the intrusion."  
  
"No apology is necessary," Boromir declared. "You were simply trying to help." He cocked an eyebrow at Hethlin, who had taken the opportunity to slink unobstrusively into her favorite corner, and had buried her nose in a book she couldn't possibly be reading because of the lack of light, but said nothing. Faramir followed his glance, then looked down for a moment, his lips twitching.  
  
Lord Esteven set down the tankard, and opened the case, leaning forward to show it to the brothers. "I wasn't exactly sure what was needed. I know that you have a couple of Rangers who are good at leechcraft, as does my lord. So I asked our men who are knowledgeable in such things what would be useful, and they accompanied me to the Houses of Healing that we might acquire some medicines. Lord Faramir looks as if he has little need of such now, thank the Valar, but you can perhaps make use of these nonetheless."  
  
Faramir, reaching out carefully to finger the bottles inside, whistled. "Goodness, Esteven, you've enough poppy in there to put a Mumak to sleep! I wish you'd been here four days ago!"  
  
"Yes, that way we could have preserved the fiction that you can drink," murmured Boromir, earning a sour look from his younger brother. The Swan Knight chuckled.  
  
"If I had known, I would have been, my lord. These will be helpful to you then?"  
  
"Oh yes! And look at all these other things! You'll make Mablung a very happy man." Esteven gave the Ranger Captain a concerned look.  
  
"If you have need of simples for your men, Lord Faramir, I am certain that the Prince would be only too happy to supply them. I know that you are isolated here, and that it is difficult to transport wounded all the way to Minas Tirith." Boromir and Faramir looked at each other wryly.  
  
"Father would just love that!" Boromir said, shaking his head sadly. "Uncle having to augment his insufficient supplies." But Faramir frowned thoughtfully.  
  
"The plain fact of the matter is that they are insufficient, Boromir. He sends me what suffices you, but when you have wounded, you send them up the road to Minas Tirith to the Houses of Healing, and they are cared for there. When a Ranger is injured, he generally lives or dies up here. We do all the nursing ourselves, and subsequently, we need more medicines."  
  
"I'll put a word into Father then," Boromir said with a furrowed brow. "If I'd known you had need, I'd have done it sooner, Faramir." The Ranger Captain shrugged in a cautious manner that showed his wound still pained him.  
  
"I've been going round and round with the quartermasters about this very matter for a couple of years now. It is as if they fear we will re-sell the medicines to the Haradrim! I even bought some additional supplies with my own funds the last time I was in Minas Tirith, as I did not want to have to trouble Father with such trivial things. But right before I was wounded myself I decided that since my own efforts had availed me naught, it was time to speak to him. Needless to say, my resolve has been strengthened by recent events." He glanced up at the Swan Knight somewhat apologetically. "It is, as might be expected from Uncle, a princely offer."  
  
Lord Esteven's answering smile was a knowing one. "And one, I assure you, that will be implemented with the utmost discretion, should you ever have need."  
  
Faramir inclined his head. "Please convey my thanks to him, and my thanks to you and your men for undertaking the journey here. I believe that the men are preparing to set supper on the boards. My brother and I require a few minutes alone to speak of a certain matter, but if you will wait without, we will join you presently. Rest with us this evening, and we'll see that you receive safe escort in the morning." The Swan Knight stood, and bowed.  
  
"I look forward to spending the night here. I've never been up here, and it is a most intriguing place."  
  
"Beware the killer mildew," Boromir suggested with a straight face. Faramir gave him an indignant glare. The knight chuckled, and went out into the main chamber.  
  
"Well there is a bit of luck!" the Ranger Captain said after he had gone. "We can send Hethlin to Uncle with Esteven, and you won't have to be troubled with the errand." The girl looked up from her book with a scowl.  
  
"Oh, I'll be with him as far as Osgiliath," Boromir said. "You worried me half to death, brother, but you are on the mend now, and I cannot afford to spend any more time away from my own command." Faramir nodded, and reached out to grasp his arm.  
  
"I know. I've been greedy keeping you away from your men for so long, but other than the hole in my side, it's been wonderful having you here. I cannot think when we last had this much time to just talk and be together. And I am very glad you were here when Mablung was doing his needlework."  
  
Boromir returned the clasp of arms, and hugged his brother cautiously close with the other one. "I am glad that I was here as well." He released Faramir, sat up and looked over at Hethlin. "Come over here lass, it is time we had a talk." Hethlin got up slowly, took her time shelving the book, and came over rather hesitantly. Over the last four days, she had begun to speak more and more frequently, starting with greeting the Rangers by name. Mablung's expression when she had first spoken to him and said "Thank you, Mablung," had been priceless, and Lorend had been very disappointed that it was none of his ploys which had succeeded in ending her silence, but rather the girl's concern for Faramir. She had moved on to short phrases, then longer ones and this very afternoon, Faramir had heard her chatting comfortably away in a rather one-sided conversation with Anborn about fletching techniques.  
  
The Ranger Captain gestured to the chair that the Swan Knight had recently vacated. "Sit, Hethlin. No one is going to bite you." Once she had seated herself, he continued in a soft and reassurring voice.  
  
"Hethlin, for a long time after you came to us, you were too sick to transport to Minas Tirith. Then, just when you were well enough to stand the journey, the orcs became very busy, and we were too busy with them in turn to make the journey. Now I finally have an opportunity to do as I ought to have a long time ago."  
  
"When I was first deciding what to do with you, you were not talking. I was afraid that if my brother found out about you, that he would send you to a madhouse." Boromir sighed, and Hethlin flicked a glance in his direction. "That is why I hid you in the forest when he came to visit. It was my idea to send you to my Uncle Imrahil instead. He is a very kind man, and would take good care of you. Though you are talking now, it is still my intention to do that. Those are his men without in the main chamber. You may go back to Minas Tirith safely with them, and await his arrival. I will send a letter with you explaining your situation."  
  
Hethlin's eyes hooded, and she seemed to consider this for a moment. Then, in her husky voice, she asked, "This uncle of yours, sir, you said he is a prince?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Where does he live when he isn't at the White City?"  
  
"In Dol Amroth, by the sea. It is about three weeks travel west of Minas Tirith. A very beautiful place."  
  
"What would I be doing in your uncle's house? I know nothing of the sea, or fine sewing or much of cooking at all. How would I earn my bread?"  
  
"Uncle is a wise man. He would find out what you were best suited for, and set you to those tasks." The girl looked up and straight into his eyes at that.  
  
"Then I would be a servant in his house?"  
  
A bit taken aback, Faramir nodded. "Why yes, I suppose that you would. But you would be safe, and earning a wage. It would be a good position for you."  
  
Hethlin shook her head. "I am not interested in making your uncle's beds or emptying his chamberpots, no matter how wise he is. I want to be a Ranger." Boromir immediately started laughing.  
  
"Oh, I saw this coming!" The girl turned her attention to him.  
  
"'Twas you who told me you'd known stout lads done worse than I in battle." The Captain-General's laughter ceased under the irritated scrutiny of his brother.  
  
"Did you tell her that, Boromir?"  
  
"Yes, I did, while you were fevered. And I meant what I said," Boromir replied, somewhat defensively, "because it is true, brother! She kept her head and made her kills, and needed no help from me at all. And didn't Mablung say she had saved his life? Three orcs in an evening-isn't that a good score for any of your Rangers?"  
  
"That is hardly the point! She is a woman! I cannot believe you were encouraging her!"  
  
"Not encouraging exactly," the Captain-general temporized, looking as if he were in fact somewhat surprised himself that he was coming to the girl's defense. "More like giving credit where credit is due." Hethlin gave him a grateful look, then turned to his brother.  
  
"I never was a woman, sir. Almost one, but the orcs stopped that. There wouldn't be anyone who'd have me that way now, even were I to let them. Which I wouldn't."  
  
Faramir frowned, lay back against his pillows and sighed, folding his arms and giving her a stern look. "It would not work, Hethlin. A lone woman among the men--it would sow dissent." The girl was puzzled.  
  
"'Dissent'? What is that?"  
  
"Trouble," Faramir explained. "There would be fighting for your favor, and someone might want you to do what you just said you did not wish to do."  
  
Hethlin frowned. "Months I've been here already and there's been no trouble over me!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I am no slattern, and there are none here who would hurt me--or fight over me, for that matter. I track better than some and shoot better than most. And I liked killing the orcs. It was better than being afraid of them. I wouldn't mind killing a few more."  
  
"I will own you did a good job out there the other night, and for that you have my thanks," Faramir said quietly, "but it was not a fitting place for you and you should never have been forced to take such action. My decision stands--you will go to Minas Tirith with my uncle's men on the morrow." The girl got to her feet at that point, and made a quick and nervous bow, almost a sort of bob.  
  
"Nay, my lord, I will not." Faramir's eyebrow crawled slowly skyward. Boromir covered his mouth with his hand briefly, then let it drop when he had mastered himself.  
  
"I beg your pardon?" For someone who had promised but scant moments before not to bite, his voice was suddenly very chill, and that did impress Hethlin, who flinched slightly, her face paling. But then she took a deep breath, and stood straight before him, her expression suddenly resolute.  
  
"My father raised me to be a Ranger. In the North, he said, women sometimes were Rangers. It is what I know. It is all I know; that, and farming. I'm grateful for what you've done for me, sir, and can't ever repay you for all your care. But I won't be a servant in some rich man's house, no matter how kind he be. There's no need--I've land of my own. I'd be much obliged if you could spare me a knife, an axe and that bow I used the other day. Then I'll be on my way, and trouble you no more. I'll pay you for them when I'm able."  
  
"But what would you do if you left here, mistress?" Boromir asked, genuinely curious, before his brother could frame a response.  
  
"Go home to my farm."  
  
"Your farm is burned and ruined," Faramir said quietly. The girl shrugged.  
  
"Father built the house and barn of stone, and built them well. They need naught but roofs and a good scrubbing to be liveable again. I can rig some sort of roof over at least part of the house, and if that doesn't work, there's a cave up the mountain that would serve for the winter."  
  
"You cannot live in a cave!" Boromir protested rather thoughtlessly. Hethlin made no spoken answer to that, but merely looked up and around the alcove in a very pointed manner then stared at him meaningfully. Her gesture was then mimicked by his brother, whose serious face lightened with a smile for a moment despite his irritation at the girl's willfulness. The Captain-General groaned, disgusted with his own folly, and Faramir chuckled.  
  
"I would hunt to eat and set some snares this winter and tan the hides of the beasts I caught," the girl continued after a sidelong look at the Ranger Captain. "In the spring, I would take them to Min-rimmon and see if Merelan the inn-keep there would trade them in Tirith for me. He would get me the seeds and tools I needed if I asked him to. It would have to be hand-tools the first year, but I'm strong, and with a shovel I could make a garden big enough to feed me, and start working on the fences. When everyone else got their crops out, they'd come over and help me raise the roofs. We look after each other in Anorien. Someone might even give me an extra kid or calf, or a few chicks, once I've a place to keep them and the fodder to feed them.. The second winter I would trap again, and hopefully get enough to buy a plow and a horse or mule. No looking back after that--always providing the weather held." It was the longest speech the brothers had ever heard her make, and she looked a bit weary when she was done.  
  
"You do seem to have it all planned out," Boromir commented. "But what if trouble came again?"  
  
"Then I would hide. I can be the wind if I wish. They would never see me. And I would kill them from cover if I could."  
  
"As you did the night the orcs came to your farm?" Faramir asked, grave once more. The Captain-General glared at his brother in utter disbelief, then saw the distaste and sorrow in Faramir's eyes and the set of his mouth and realized that he was using whatever argument he could to persuade the girl that she needed their help.  
  
Hethlin looked down at the floor. "I shot a few of the orcs that night," she said quietly after a moment. "Saw what was going on, tied my horse well away, and slunk in on my belly. But my brother and sister were still alive, and the orc-captain held my brother up by the fire with a knife to his throat and told me to lay down my arms and come in or he'd kill him. Said if I did, they'd take us back to Mordor to be slaves." Faramir sucked in a quick breath, but the girl did not look at him, and continued in the same quiet, dead voice.  
  
"I knew you should not trust orcs, but I also knew they did take captives, and I thought that if I was with my brother and sister, then perhaps I could get us all away at some point. So I did what he said, and they took me and bound me as they had done Hiranthel and Derulin and put us all together. My brother and sister were the only reason the orcs got their hands upon me. If Hiranthel and Derulin been dead already, I'd have slain as many as I could, and then left to get some help." She reached out blindly for the back of the chair and sank into it again. "They were so frightened. I promised them I would stay with them and protect them as best I could." She looked up and gave Faramir another of those straight looks. "Hiranthel had five years, and Derulin three." The Ranger Captain paled a bit, but met her gaze squarely. Boromir reached for his forgotten tankard of ale and quaffed a deep draught, eyes on the girl all the while.  
  
"What happened to them, Hethlin?" Faramir asked after a moment. The girl swallowed convulsively and cast her eyes down once more.  
  
"I thought at first that the orcs would hold to their word. And perhaps the orc-captain intended to. It seemed so at first. But a big quarrel broke out in the middle of the night. It was in orcish, so I did not understand it, but there was much pointing at the three of us, and the orc-captain finally shrugged and said something. Later he told me that some of them had still been hungry--it was a big troop, as you know, and orcs eat quite a bit." She glanced up briefly and Faramir nodded, obviously not liking the direction this was going. "Mother or Father had set Father's wagon team loose when they first came in and the cow. The orcs had caught the cow and roasted her, but she had not sated their hunger completely. I was off-limits--they'd not had a chance to sport with my mother, she had died with a blade in her hand, and the orc-captain wanted to keep me for himself. But Derulin was not old enough for that, and good for only one thing."  
  
Boromir was pale as well now, and he pressed his tankard into the girl's hand, who drank from it without even really registering that she did so. When she spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper.  
  
"The orcs came over and tore my brother and sister from my side. They cried to me to help them, and I tried to break my bonds, but I was bound too tightly and I couldn't." Faramir glanced down at her wrists, remembering the deep galls that had been upon them when they'd first retrieved her. "Then the orcs tied them to a spit, and roasted them alive. I will hear their screams until the day I die."  
  
"Valar!" muttered Boromir. Faramir looked as if he were regretting his strategy, which had apparently not worked in any event, for Hethlin set the tankard carefully down upon the little table and met his eyes once more. Her own were red-rimmed all of a sudden, but strangely dry.  
  
"You need not fear for me, Captain, when I go home. I have naught to protect but myself now. If brigands or Dunlanders or orcs come nigh me again, I will slip away and not show myself. The only time they'll lay eyes upon me is as I kill them."  
  
************  
  
Faramir was silent for a long moment. "You would be safer by far with my uncle," he said at last very quietly. Hethlin looked down into the tankard as if studying something in the depths.  
  
"Being safe is not always the most important thing. I have my land, and Mablung tells me my kin are buried there. I wish to be free, not beholden to someone else for my living. And I do not want to live in a city. If I cannot be a Ranger here, I will go home and be a Ranger in Anorien. Now that my father is gone, they can use my help." She was utterly serious, and after the tale she had told and the deeds she had done neither man felt inclined to laugh at her.  
  
"I do not like the idea of you placing yourself in such peril, mistress," Boromir declared, "and I am the Steward's Heir of Gondor." Hethlin's head lifted, she looked at him and shrugged.  
  
"That means little to me, sir. My father went to ask aid of your father when I was ten years old and we had brigands preying upon us. The Steward said he had none to spare and that we must look to ourselves. So Father and the others did. A couple of them died doing it. And I am not the only girl in Anorien who has ever had something like this happen to her--there was a lass the Dunlanders carried off with them over the mountains when I was small. Father told me her tale to frighten me and make sure I remembered to never leave the house without keeping a weapon to hand. The Stewards never got upset over her or any of us before--the only reason you are worried about me now is because you know me."  
  
Which was a cold assessment, but not entirely untrue, Faramir thought ruefully. And it did not sit well with Boromir.  
  
"I remember when your father came to meet with mine, mistress. Afterwards, I quarreled with Father because I did wish to come to Anorien's aid and he forbade it. He is my commander, as I am the commander of Gondor's army and I owe him my obedience."  
  
She nodded her understanding. "Indeed, my lord, you should obey your father. And I thank you for your concern. But it doesn't change the fact that there was no-one there to help us." There was no condemnation in her voice, but a great deal of sorrow, and her eyes were shadowed. Boromir sighed, and scrubbed at his face wearily with one hand. Faramir looked up at Hethlin.  
  
"Why don't you go and wash up for supper? We will speak more of this matter later." She nodded, and started for the door. "And Hethlin?" The girl paused and looked back over her shoulder at him. "I would very much prefer it if you did not try to leave the caverns without my leave. I haven't the stomach," and here he brushed a hand lightly over his bandaged side with a wry smile, "for any more moonlight chases this week." Her suddenly disgruntled expression told him that he had in fact successfully divined her intention, but after a moment she nodded curtly and left the alcove. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Hethlin pushed past the curtain, out into the main chamber, and Mablung looked at her. He frowned in sympathetic concern when he saw her face.

"I am sorry, lass." She looked at him in surprise, and he tapped his ear, then gestured towards the curtain.

"You heard then?" she asked, lowering her voice, which was vibrating with anger. Upset as she was, she kept her wits about her, he noticed. She looked towards where the Swan Knights stood, admiring the waterfall in the early evening light, then moved towards the back corner of the chamber opposite the alcove, where neither they, Boromir's men, nor anyone in the alcove could hear.

"I heard. About the medicine, and the rest of it as well."

"I _told_ him I did not want to go to the White City or Dol Amroth, but he won't listen! Says I won't be safe. I don't care about being safe, if I cannot stay here, then I want to go home! And I can take care of myself!"

"There's no doubt of that, lass, not after the other night," Mablung said soothingly. "But the Captain does not wish to risk your life now that he's gone to so much trouble to save it. Can you not understand that? And the rest of us don't much like the idea of you being killed or wounded either." Hethlin glared at him, her expression equal parts exasperation and despair.

"You cannot keep me safe forever, Mablung! No one can! Wherever I go, there are perils--even in Dol Amroth! Do not the Corsairs raid the coasts? Taking the sword out of my hand does not make me safe. It just means I won't be able to fight before I am killed."

The lieutenant thought about that for a moment, and found the reasoning sound enough for a girl who until recently had been considered a possible madwoman. Damrod and Lorend, seeing the vehemence with which Hethlin was speaking, moved towards them

"What is going on, Mablung?" Damrod asked quietly, gesturing towards the girl.

"The Captain wants to send Hethlin away with the Swan Knights, to Dol Amroth. To work in his uncle's house as a servant."

"Huh! Sounds like a good place to me," commented Lorend, cocking an eyebrow. He seemed impressed with the idea. "The Prince is the richest man in Gondor. I would imagine he pays his people well."

Hethlin gave him a flat look. "Or perhaps he doesn't, and that is _why_ he is the richest man in Gondor!" Damrod laughed quietly, and she glared around at all three of them in indignation. "But I do not wish to be a servant in a great castle, well paid or no! I have a farm I can return to. Or I could stay here and be a Ranger. I will not let him send me to Dol Amroth!"

"Don't see how you could stop him, lass, if he sends you under guard," Mablung said.

"A journey's end and escort can change along the way," Hethlin suggested darkly.

Mablung, knowing how good she was at stalking and tracking, could well imagine her giving the Swan Knights the slip. While the idea of the flower of Gondor's chivalry being horribly embarrassed by an Anorien woods-girl appealed to his rough-hewn Ranger soul, he nonetheless shook his head.

"You should not resort to that sort of thing until we try another strategy first. Let's go talk to some of the men. Lorend, Damrod, you can help us with that as well." The two Rangers nodded, and started to go back to the tables, only to be halted by Mablung's upraised hand. "Quietly now--we don't want word of Heth's being a woman to get to the Swan Knights or the Captain-General's men, or there won't be any way to keep her here." Both of the men nodded. Surprised and relieved at Mablung's offer of assistance, Hethlin subsided obediently, going with him to speak to the Rangers currently within the cave, who were for the most part busy setting up the trestles and laying out the dinner things.

"Angrim," Mablung said softly to another of the most senior Rangers, a man who had been in the troop since before Faramir had taken command, "I want a Ranger trial for Hethlin."

Angrim cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"

"The Captain wants to send her to Dol Amroth to be a servant in the Prince's house. She doesn't want to go. Wants to go back to her farm, or become one of us."

"Why won't the Captain let her go home?"

"He's afraid she'll come to a bad end, all alone on a burned-out farm."

"She's much more likely to come to a bad end here with us."

"I don't care!" Hethlin interjected with soft vehemence. "I can fight, I've proven that! And I want to fight! I have the right to! No one here has as much right as I do!"

"Do you know the story of every Ranger here, lass?" Angrim asked quietly. "Unless you do, then don't say things like that. But I'll grant you have _as much _a right as any here." He looked at Mablung . "So, what is the point of this? Do you want a Ranger trial so she can stay here, or so she can go home?"

Mablung shrugged. "I figure it will serve either purpose. Show she's good enough to fight with us, or show she's good enough to get herself home and take care of herself once she's there."

"You told me you'd already tried her skills when the two of you were out in the perimeter. Why don't we just let that stand as the test? Your word is good to the men."

"Ordinarily, it would be. But you all know I helped nurse her back to health, and I'm rather fond of the lass." He shot Hethlin a smile, and she smiled shyly back, then ducked her head. "'Tis better if another of us who is not so…attached to her agrees with me."

Angrim nodded thoughtfully. "There is that. When do you want to do this?"

"Right now, while there's still light. You can do the shooting first, then take her out stalking in the dusk."

"I was about to have dinner, Mablung."

"We'll put something in your packs. I'm sorry, Angrim, but there's no help for it. He'll ask the Swan Knights to take her tomorrow, then everyone will know she's a woman, and we'll have no choice but to let her go."

The Ranger lifted his eyebrow, and gave Hethlin a wry smile. "If she's truly good enough to be one of us, that should be no hardship. She could go out with the Swan Knights, lose them, and make her way home." The girl grinned wickedly back at him, but Mablung shook his head.

"Not a good idea, Angrim. She might very well give the Swan Knights the slip, but they would hardly let the matter drop. The Captain is the Prince's nephew, and the Prince has told them to do as the Captain commands, if he needs anything--I heard Lord Esteven saying that just a while ago--"

"--And you saying just the other day that your ears weren't what they used to be!" Angrim interjected blandly.

"I was listening at the curtain, as you well know," Mablung admitted with a certain pained dignity. "And since you're always one of the first to ask me what happened when I do, you've no call to be coming over all virtuous on me now! In any event, if the Captain asks the Swan Knights to deliver her safely to Tirith, then they won't stop trying until they get it done. You know how mad they are for fulfilling orders and duty and all the rest of it! If she gives them the slip, they'll go back to Minas Tirith and get reinforcements, and they'll comb the area and they won't stop until they find her and take her to the Prince. They'll use numbers to make up for what they lack in woodcraft, and we'll be tripping over Swan Knights at every turn! The Steward is bound to notice, and will start asking questions about what they're doing in Ithilien, and the next thing you know, the Captain will be in trouble with his father. Again."

"No, I don't suppose we want that," Angrim conceded. "Very well then, I'll do it. But you need to make sure the Captain doesn't speak to the Swan Knights tonight and ruin things that way."

"I'll see to it." Angrim turned to Hethlin.

"Get your gear. Full pack, and that bow you used the other day. Let's go see what you're made of."

The girl's face lit up, and eyes sparkling, she hurried off to do as she was bidden without another word. Angrim looked at Mablung.

"I hope you know what you are doing."

"Haven't a clue. Making it up as I go along," the lieutenant admitted. Angrim shrugged.

"Ah, well. The Captain-General is said to like soldiers with initiative. You could always transfer to the regular army if the Captain doesn't approve of your improvisation." He got up, and moved purposefully towards the supper tables. "I'm going to see that we get a good dinner in those packs myself. We should be back before midnight."

Mablung followed along. "Thank you, Angrim."

Another shrug. "I do not think we are so short of men that we have to resort to using women just yet, but I do agree that Hethlin is something of a special case. And she has been no trouble and certainly earned her keep thus far." Angrim selected a couple of the other Rangers to join him as judges, and in a very short time, the impromptu trial party had loaded packs with their suppers and left the refuge. Mablung turned from watching them leave to see Boromir exiting the alcove, a strong arm beneath his younger brother's elbow. Faramir had thrown a shirt on over his bandaged chest, and it hung loose over his breeches and boots. He was hardly his usual neat, tidy, laced-up and proper self, but the Rangers greeted him with a cheer nonetheless, and he smiled. Then his eyes flicked about the cavern, and the smile vanished. He gestured to Mablung, and the lieutenant approached.

"Where is Hethlin, Mablung?" he asked, his voice low.

"With Angrim, sir," Mablung answered, equally quiet. "I asked him to give her a Ranger trial."

"_What_? Why ever would you do such a thing, Mablung? 'Tis cruel to raise her hopes in such a manner!" Faramir's eyes flashed grey fire of a sudden, and though there were few who would choose to face him in such a mood, Mablung stood his ground.

"Begging the Captain's pardon, sir, but it is you who are being cruel, by sending Hethlin to the City to make the Prince's beds. 'Tis not what she was bred and born for, and 'tis not what she wants."

"And is what you want to see her killed or maimed for life playing at being a Ranger?" Faramir asked in a hissing whisper. "Would you hold her hand while she died as slowly as Modrien did?"

Mablung met his eyes squarely. "If I had to, then yes, Captain, I would. But I asked Angrim to do this not so much so that you'd let her be a Ranger, but so you would let her go home. I reckoned that if you knew Angrim and the others thought her good enough to pass a Ranger trial, then you would feel more easy about letting her go back to her own place. You'd not worry about one of us traveling alone to Anorien now, would you?"

"You are all adults, not some seventeen-year-old child!"

Boromir, who had been studying the toes of his boots as he served as Faramir's silent prop, spoke for the first time.

"Faramir, no one who has suffered what she has suffered and survived is a child any longer. I think you should let her go home as well. She has the right to chose for herself., and that land has been bought ten times over with her family's blood. Small wonder she wants to keep it."

Faramir gave his brother an irritated glare. "Whatever happened to 'I want her sent to Dol Amroth as soon as possible.'? Some consistency here would be welcome, Captain-General."

"I had not fought beside her, looked her in the eye, nor yet spoken with her when I said that," Boromir reminded him in a reasonable tone. "Now, having done so, and being better informed about the subject, I have amended my opinion." He nudged Faramir gently towards the tables. "In any event, we can discuss this further after dinner, and in private. No need to involve Uncle's men in the matter until a decision is made. Now come--you need to get off of your feet, and get some food in you. Look how glad your men are to see you so recovered!" Faramir, well aware of the fact that he was being cozened, glowered at Boromir, but allowed himself to be seated at the table nonetheless, his ire slightly appeased by the speed with which his supper was laid before him.

However--"You have not heard the last of this, Mablung," he warned, before picking up his fork. The lieutenant nodded, gulping slightly.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The dinner passed pleasantly enough despite Faramir's displeasure. He knew Esteven fairly well from both his visits to Dol Amroth and the Swan Knight's postings in Minas Tirith. Esteven was but a couple of years younger than Faramir and the Ranger Captain liked him, so he forced himself to play the genial host, allowing his men to recount tales of recent encounters while the Swan Knights responded in their turn with accounts of the goings on in Minas Tirith and other parts of the realm.

Boromir, eating the Ranger food with more enthusiasm than its quality warranted, watched all of this with a rather infuriating smile that could not have been called a smirk, but was the next best thing to it. Faramir thought he seemed entirely too amused over the whole business, though he said nothing to the Swan Knight or to his own men about a possible addition to their party the next morning. After dinner had been consumed, the Swan Knights, the Captain-General and his escort and Faramir and his lieutenants gathered about the table with lamps and maps, to amuse themselves with more a more detailed discussion of the current military situation, while the other off-duty Rangers saw to the maintenance of the retreat, or played with cards or dice.

In a shorter time than he would have liked the Ranger Captain decided to return to bed, for he felt his strength failing him. Just as he was going to make his excuses, Boromir, noticing his weariness, leaned close to his ear. "Shall I tuck you in?" he murmured with a grin, and his brother gave him a disgruntled glare for a moment, before suddenly relaxing and chuckling in a mercurial turn of mood.

"You may as well--the Valar know I've done it for _you_ often enough!" Throwing a hand up to his brow like a swooning maiden, he sagged against Boromir, who caught him, careful of his wound. Laughter echoed through the cavern, then halted, as Angrim and the other judges came down the stairs with Hethlin in their midst. She looked very pleased with herself, which told Faramir all he needed to know, even before the other Rangers nodded soberly at him.

Straightening up, he twitched his shirt in a rather futile effort to neaten it, then motioned the Rangers to follow him into the alcove. Boromir stayed his own men with an upraised hand, and followed as well, pulling the curtain shut behind them.

"Report, Angrim," Faramir commanded, sitting slowly down upon his bed. "I understand that you tested Hethlin's abilities this evening, at Lieutenant Mablung's request."

"That is correct, Captain."

"And how did you find her?"

"Well up to the standard we would expect of a young recruit. Better in fact, than many we've taken, my lord. Some of whom have become very competent Rangers." The commander of the Rangers nodded acknowledgment and looked at the others.

"What about the rest of you?"

"She's good, Captain." "A good shot, and stalks well." "Gave us the slip for quite a while." came some of the judgments offered. Faramir absorbed all of this for a moment, then turned to the girl.

"Hethlin, is it still your wish to return to Anorien?" Hethlin nodded. "As my men feel that you are as skilled as any Ranger, I see no reason to deny that wish. You will leave with my brother and his escort in the morning, and accompany them as far as Osgiliath, where you will be given passage across the river. From there, I have no doubt that you can make your own way home." The girl looked at him for a moment and ventured a small smile, then nodded and cast her eyes down once more. "I am well aware that you have endeavored to make yourself useful while you were staying with us, and I am grateful for your service."

"No need for thanks, captain. T'was only payback as is meet and proper," she murmured in her husky voice.

The Captain's face was expressionless. "Whether_ you _think there is need or not, you have my thanks. Go speak to Mablung, and tell him I want you outfitted with whatever you can carry that you might need to make your way there. An axe and a tinderbox leap to mind, but I am sure that you and he together can think of other things."

Hethlin's chin came up. "I shan't take charity, my lord."

Faramir frowned. "And I am not offering it. You have been in my charge, I drew you from the river, you are my responsibility. As I am the military authority in this area, I would be remiss in my duty were I to let you leave without the equipment you needed for your survival.So there will be no more talk of charity." He took a deep breath, and cast a look in his brother's direction. "And as you mentioned in an earlier discussion, it was the failure of the Steward to provide protection for his people that got you into the situation you were in. So consider the equipment a very inadequate recompense." Boromir nodded in grave agreement.

The girl looked at them both, then nodded. "Thank you, my lords."

"You are welcome, Hethlin," Faramir replied before turning his attention back to his men. "Thank you as well, Angrim, and the rest of you for taking the time to do that. I know that you were off-duty. Go seek your rest now." A gesture dismissed them, and Angrim urged Hethlin out of the room as well. As soon as they were gone, Boromir drew back the coverlet and helped his brother take off his boots and shirt.

"Are you all right, brother?" he asked. "You seem troubled. Is it Mablung and your men taking matters into their own hands, or something else?" A wry grimace answered him.

"My men have always been an independent lot, brother. But such rampant rebellion as this I've not seen since my early days here as commander. I thought I had put an end to such antics forever and fear that my inability to have done so does not show me in a favorable light. Perhaps you should find another commander for the Rangers." Faramir eased himself down onto the bed, forestalling his brother's assistance with a shake of the head. Once he had done so, the Captain-General drew up the blanket as well as a chair for himself.

"As if I could find another who would do the job as well as you! No, Faramir, the problem here is not that you are a bad commander, but rather that the men care too much about that girl. She is the disruptive influence I originally claimed she was, though not in the way that I thought she would be." He reached out to stroke the hair back from Faramir's brow with an understanding smile. "This self-doubt of yours has no basis in fact, brother, but is merely because of you are weary with the effort of healing and it has made you melancholy. Be of good cheer! She will leave with me tomorrow, and then you needn't trouble yourself about her anymore."

"I fear I shall always be troubled about her, and wonder what happened to her," Faramir protested. "As I said, I am responsible. Was it so wrong of me to try to make sure that she was safe? Everyone seems to be acting as if it was."

Boromir gave his brother a thoughtful look. "I think what is happening here is that everyone but you seems to realize that Hethlin, like all of us here, knows that there is ultimately _no_ safety. She has said it herself a couple of times now. You have generously offered her what most women would in fact be happy to receive--the prospect of as secure a home as can be managed in these troubled times. Food, shelter, a decent wage and protection. But she is a true child of Gondor--she wishes to live on her own land, within sight of the Shadow, and upon her own terms. I rather admire that."

A wicked glint came into Faramir's eye then. "Father is desperate enough at this point that he would probably accept even a farm girl as your wife, brother."

Boromir's eyebrow flew up. "You truly were _not_ listening, brother! I begin to wonder if the fever affected your hearing!" The commander of the Rangers gave him an offended look, but undaunted, he continued. "'I never was a woman, sir. Almost one, but the orcs stopped that. There wouldn't be anyone who'd have me that way now, even were I to let them. Which I wouldn't.'" A wry smile twisted his lips. "I am too ungentle for such an injured lady in any event. She would require a more sensitive, understanding approach. Perhaps from a man who knows poetry?" His brother snorted, and he grinned. "Besides, I am otherwise engaged."

Faramir looked at him for a moment, then comprehension dawned, and his eyes widened. But before he could speak, Boromir laid a gentle finger upon his lips. "And we will not speak of that here, with the men about."

Faramir removed the finger, his brow furrowed in disapproval. "I thought you had done with that."

"Whatever would have made you think so? Had you heard any word from me to that effect?"

"No, but….Boromir, you cannot continue in such wise! You must wed! And soon! Our house needs an heir!"

"Not while I have a little brother who can wed in my stead. Look at it as your chance to do something to really impress Father."

"That is not funny, Boromir."

"No, it is not," Boromir agreed. "Do you know what Uncle called his children once? The same ones he loves so dearly? Hostages to fortune. He was admittedly in a very black mood; it was the day Aunt Nimrien died. And he was rather drunk at the time. But the phrase stuck with me, for some reason, and in time I realized that I did not want to create any such hostages, only to lose them if the Enemy should have the victory. So my current situation suits me well enough. I'll not wed until this matter is settled. And if we are not victorious, my lack of an heir will hardly matter now, will it?"

Faramir stared at him, dumbfounded. Boromir had never been so open about his reluctance to wed before. "By the time this matter is settled, you may be old and toothless and without the means to make an heir!" he argued at last, gathering his scattered wits. The Captain-General chuckled.

"Give our house credit for some small vigor, Faramir! Why, I am still _nine years _younger than _Father_ was before he troubled to court Mother and wed her, and he an only son! Which fact I think I shall remind him of the next time he tasks me with neglecting _my_ duty!"

Faramir shook his head in disbelief. "You are over-bold, Boromir!"

"Hardly. In this matter, I have the high ground." He tugged the blanket up further over his brother's shoulders. "But enough of my love life, or lack of it. Rest easy about the girl. She goes in search of the destiny she most desires--you gave her her life back, and her freedom. Be content. When she is gone, the men will settle, and in six months it will be as if this had never happened. T'will be naught but another Ranger tale told about the campfires of an evening." He stooped to kiss his brother's brow. "Get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning, particularly when you're rid of my troublesome presence and can get back to work."

The Ranger Captain smiled then, and it was a sweet smile, free of his earlier discontent. "Troublesome? Hardly. I would we could be together more often than we are." He closed his eyes.

Boromir rose and started quietly for the door. "So do I, brother. So do I."

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Hethlin spent quite some time assembling a heavy pack under the direction of Mablung and the other Rangers. Indeed, it was not so much a case of trying to find things that would be useful as trying to gracefully refuse the many items that were thrust upon her. Everyone wanted to donate some small thing, as if doing so would give them a stake in her new life, and she would have been hard-pressed to have carried it all even with a pack-horse. But Mablung and Damrod ran interference for her, and eventually things were winnowed down to an amount that could be borne upon her own back, with some effort.

The hour was very late by the time they were finished, and yawning, she crept quietly into the alcove for a last few hours sleep there before her departure. She was very careful to be as silent as possible, so as to not wake the Captain, but his eyes cracked open as she was arranging her bedroll.

"Hethlin?"

"Sir?" Advancing to his bedside, she gave him a curious look. "Are you well? Do you need anything?" Laying a hand upon his brow, she found it cool. Faramir chuckled sleepily.

"No, I'm well enough. But if you don't mind…" Pushing cautiously up onto an elbow, he gestured to the pitcher and cup on the stand beside his bed. The girl poured him a glass and presented it. He drank without pause till it was drained, sighed in appreciation, and set the cup back down. Then he settled back against the pillows and indicated the chair his brother had used earlier.

"Thank you. Would you object if I kept you from your rest but a moment longer?" She shook her head and seated herself. "I find myself worrying, you see. I want to know that you'll be all right when you leave us."

Hethlin's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, sir, you needn't trouble yourself on my account! I'll do well enough. Did not your Rangers tell you so?"

"Indeed they did. And perhaps it is foolish of me to worry. What is this home of yours like, that you love so well? I never questioned Mablung about it, and for a long time you and I could not speak of it."

Hethlin was silent for a long time, brow furrowed as she chose her words. Faramir watched her, saying nothing himself. At last she spoke.

"The farm is at the foot of the mountains, hard by the Nardol beacon. The beacon-keepers used to stop by now and again, to get some of Mother's cooking." She paused a moment and blinked. "Poor fellows, they'll have no joy of me in that way. I can roast a rabbit over a spit, but that's about it."

The Ranger Captain smiled. "I had noticed you avoided such tasks. Did you go up into the mountains themselves a lot?" he asked, coaxing her away from the painful recollection of her mother. Hethlin nodded, and resumed speaking with more enthusiasm.

"Oh yes! Father and I hunted there all the time. There is this stream near the house, where we get our water. It comes from up on the mountain, and there is a waterfall up there that is very beautiful. Not like this one, there's no cave behind it and the sunlight doesn't hit it but in spots, except in winter. Then it is wonderful--everything nearby is coated with ice, and the sun can get through and makes everything sparkle in rainbow colors. It's my favorite place. There's a bit of grass there, and trees all around. The water is very cold, but it feels good to bathe in in the summer!"

Another moment's thought. "The evening falls quicker there, because of the mountains. The farm is already in purple shadow when other folks farther away are still in sunlight. But the morning comes there first. My bed was upstairs in the garret, and I had a window that faced the mountains. I would wake up of a morning, and it would still be dark all about, but I could look up and the Sun would be gold upon the mountaintops."

"It sounds lovely," Faramir commented, a bit surprised at her descriptive powers. Hethlin nodded again, smiling.

"It is, sir! There are birds, and hawks--I loved watching the hawks soar--and all sorts of flowers and butterflies in the summer. If you were ever to come there, I would be glad to show you," she concluded shyly.

"I would hope that if I ever came there, it would be in a time of peace. And then I would very much like to see your waterfall, and your hawks and flowers. Thank you, Hethlin." He yawned, and snuggled down further into his covers. "I think that I can sleep now." His eyes closed, and she watched for a couple of minutes, as his breathing evened out and slowed. When a soft snore issued forth from his lips, the girl smiled, and greatly daring, gave his hand a gentle squeeze where it protruded from the blankets. Then, cheeks pink, she sought her own rest.


	9. Chapter Nine

The next morning Hethlin woke at dawn with a start, as was her wont at times. There was a wrenching, disorienting moment of the sort she hated-_I am not bound, there are no orcs, I'm with the Rangers-_before she woke fully and peered about her. The alcove was totally dark, save for a bar of pale grey light that was the doorway with the curtain nearly drawn shut. She listened for a moment, hearing the soft, regular breathing of her room-mates, and assuming he was still asleep, got up as silently as possible. But no sooner did she move than she heard his voice, speaking in little more than a whisper.

"Hethlin?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Would you be so kind as to ask my brother to come in here when you go out? I think he will be up, and if he is not, please ask his lieutenant to wake him."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you." She started to nod, realized belatedly how useless that was in near-total darkness and made her way carefully to the door and out into the main chamber.

Boromir had moved out into the main chamber when she had returned to the refuge and he was just waking up, sitting up and rubbing his face, his blankets fallen low about his waist. He was shirtless. She couldn't tell if he was wearing anything or not beneath the blankets, and found herself blushing.

"Captain-General, sir? The Captain is asking for you."

"Is he now, lad?" Boromir said, and seeing her discomfiture, grinned raffishly. "Tell him I'll be in presently." Hethlin, not wanting to discover if the Captain-General was in truth unclothed, hastened back to do as she'd been told.

"'Tis good he's going home. Did you see the way he blushed? That lad still has mother's milk around his mouth," she heard Gethrin say to his captain as she departed.

"_That lad _killed three orcs the other night," came Boromir's casual response. "You keep your mouth off of him, lieutenant." Hethlin's cheeks heated again, but not from embarrassment this time.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Boromir ate his breakfast at Faramir's desk, while he watched Mablung tend his brother's wound. Faramir hissed as the bandages were carefully peeled away, but he sat stoically enough while the lieutenant examined the injury, then salved it and bandaged it once more.

"It looks good, sir. No infection that I can see, and it's starting to heal nicely, from the inside out, just as it should."

"Thank you, Mablung," Faramir said. The lieutenant helped him to carefully put his shirt back on.

"You're still going to need to take it easy for a while, sir. Probably at least another week. I'll be seeing if the stitches are ready to take out in five days. Until they come out, you're not fit for duty, and maybe not for a while afterwards. And I'll sit on you myself if you try to go out on patrol before you're ready."

Faramir's eyebrow arched upward. "You are impertinent, lieutenant," he said without any real heat. Mablung, unfazed, merely stared meaningfully back at his superior. Boromir chuckled.

"No, he is a jewel among subordinates! Lieutenant, I order you to use any means necessary to make sure that my brother does not resume duties before you deem him physically able to do so. There, Faramir, it's official-he's not being impertinent, he's under orders." Faramir glowered at his brother for a moment, then, seeing Boromir grin unrepentantly, he sighed and shook his head.

"If you are done totally undermining my authority with my men, will you not at least take some of them with you when you return, Boromir? I was dismayed that you'd brought no more than a dozen of your own with you on the way here. Given the level of activity we've been seeing lately, it would be best if you went back with one of my patrols as an escort."

The Captain-General shook his head. "I know how much ground you have to cover, and how few men you have to do it. We'll be close to the river, in daylight. Esteven and his fellows got up here safely enough and saw nothing on their way. I think we'll be all right."

"I feel strongly about this, Boromir."

"Had one of your dreams, did you?"

"No. I just think you should be careful."

"I will be all right, little brother."

Faramir, recognizing the tone of voice his brother used when his mind was set upon something, gave up any further argument as futile.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

After breakfast, the time for farewells came at last. Hethlin, compelled to act as lad rather than lass, clasped Mablung's forearm instead of hugging him as she might have wished. But when to her surprise the lieutenant embraced her, she did not resist, but allowed herself to be pressed against his shoulder.

"Thank you, sir, for everything," she said softly against his ear.

"You are very welcome, Hethlin," he said, his voice more gruff than usual. "You be well now, do you hear? Stay out of trouble." She nodded, he gave her a squeeze and released her, and she had to blink rapidly a couple of times as she stepped back.

"I still think you should go work for the Prince," Lorend said, stepping forward in his turn. Knowing better than to go for an embrace, he held out his arm, and Hethlin clasped it with a grin.

"Go work for him yourself, if you like the idea so much!"

"Ah, but what would the Rangers do without me?"

A chorus of suggestions promptly arose in answer to his rhetorical question, Lorend glaring over his shoulder at the speakers while Hethlin laughed.

"Take care of yourself, Hethlin," he said, turning his attention back to her for a moment before stepping back, and she nodded. Then, somewhat more hesitantly, she turned towards where Faramir stood, and walked over to him.

"Thank you, Captain sir," she said softly, extending her arm a bit tentatively, but he grasped it readily enough, though his grave grey eyes searched hers.

"You are welcome, Hethlin. Are you sure you are set upon this course? My offer still stands."

"Aye sir, I am. I want to go home."

"Then go you safe home, and may the Valar guard and guide you."

"And you too, sir." She hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating doing or saying something more, then gave him a rather tremulous smile and stepped back. Faramir smiled back, that rare, beautiful smile that lit his face up. Hethlin sucked in a deep breath, then turned to where Mablung was waiting, a blindfold in his hand. Other Rangers clustered close to offer their own farewells.

"Be well, little brother, and don't rush back into battle too soon," Boromir said, watching while Hethlin finished her good-byes and she and the Swan Knights had their eyes bound. He draped his arm about Faramir's more slender shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. Faramir frowned a little, the crease that said he was worried forming between his eyes.

"I still think you should take some of my men with you, brother. Mablung can lead a patrol out."

"And I've already told you my decision upon that. Don't worry, Faramir, we'll be fine. And I promise that the next time Father writes to me complaining of some shortcoming of yours, I'll come up and look into it personally. In fact, I may just start doing that every time he writes me so. Then perhaps he will stop complaining."

"'Tis more likely Sauron will offer unconditional surrender first," snorted Faramir, but amusement had replaced the worry on his face-as Boromir had intended. After cheerful good-byes to those of Faramir's senior officers with whom he had some acquaintance, the Captain-General took Hethlin's elbow and led her out of the refuge personally.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Hethlin kept her ears and other senses sharp as they moved down the trail. As a child, her father had blindfolded her on more than one occasion to teach her the importance of using all her senses in the woods. She was very conscious of the creak of leather and jingle of mail, the sound of underbrush being crushed under heavy feet (hardly feather-footed, were the soldiers and Swan Knights!), the murmured conversations and breathing of the soldiers, and the morning birdsong. She kept a running count of her strides, to see if she could calculate the distance they'd traveled. After a time, when they'd gone about two miles by her estimation, the party changed direction. She could tell because she began to feel the intermittent sensation of the morning sun upon her left cheek, when it found its way through the leaf canopy. They were headed due south. After another couple of miles a halt was called, and the blindfolds removed.

Esteven scrubbed at his face in relief, and Boromir gave him an apologetic clap on the shoulder.

"Sorry, Esteven."

The Swan Knight smiled graciously. "You need not apologize, my lord. We understand the necessity for secrecy. I am glad I was able to see your brother's stronghold. A fascinating place! And glad as well, that there was no real need for my services. The Prince will be very relieved to know Lord Faramir is recovering." He gestured at the trail before him. "Shall we go on?"

Boromir nodded with equal courtesy. "Indeed we shall." The party set forth again. They marched for another hour, and the Captain-General was just discussing with Lord Esteven the timing of their lunch break, when Hethlin began to get the feeling that something was wrong. There was a prickling in the short hairs on the back of her neck that she knew she should pay heed to, so she stopped suddenly in her tracks, nearly causing the soldier in back of her (for she was right behind the Swan Knight and Boromir), to walk up on her heels. He muttered something under his breath that might have been a curse and there was the odd swear word here and there as the whole party came to an untidy halt.

"Hethlin?" the Captain-General, seeming surprised rather than angry when he noticed his escort had halted, "What's amiss?"

"There's something wrong, sir," she said softly. "Could I have a moment to listen, please?" He inclined his head in acquiescence and stood silently as she had asked, gesturing to his men to be silent as well.

Hethlin stretched her senses, listening as carefully as she could, sniffing the breeze, looking about her carefully. The sense of wrongness persisted, and a moment later she realized what it was.

"There are no birds, sir," she murmured at last. "They were singing earlier, but they've stopped."

"Because of us?"

She shook her head, definite. "We wouldn't make them go silent like that."

The Captain-General raised an eyebrow. "What would?"

"Father always said that good things flee or go hidden where the Enemy is abroad."

"Orcs?"

"I think so. They could be moving, or laired up against the day somewhere close by. I could go ahead a way and look. I really probably should, sir. Otherwise, we might stumble right over them."

"And what should _we_ be doing while you are scouting for these possible orcs?" Boromir asked genially. Hethlin suddenly remembered that she was speaking to the supreme commander of Gondor's army, and went pink, but held her ground.

"Just get off the trail and wait here quietly till I get back, sir. You should keep a sharp eye out as well. I'll try to be quick about it."

"Captain-General, sir," said Gethrin, "you're not taking the boy seriously, are you?" Some muttered commentary behind him indicated that the rest of Boromir's escort was of a similar doubting disposition. The Steward's Heir seemed blissfully oblivious to their displeasure.

"Faramir always says in the woods, best trust a Ranger. This boy is as close as we've got at present." Boromir shot a look at the commander of the Swan Knights. "Esteven?"

The Swan Knight shrugged. "I'm out of my element here, my lord. I'll defer to the expert." Boromir turned back to Hethlin.

"I'd as soon you were careful as quick, lad. You don't want to stumble over them yourself."

Hethlin blinked. "Shall I go then, sir?"

Boromir nodded. "Indeed. We'll wait here till you return and report. And here, take this." He gestured to Gethrin. "The spy-glass, Gethrin." His aide handed him a slender brass tube, which he held up to Hethlin's eye. "See how it works? Twist it here to make things sharper." She exclaimed in wonder.

"It's like having eagle eyes!"

The Captain-General chuckled. "I suppose it is. It's also worth more than a full suit of armor, so be careful with it!" Wide-eyed, Hethlin accepted the leather carrying tube from Gethrin, unbuckled her belt and slid it on.

"I'll be careful, sir. Thank you, sir." She made one of her nervous head bobs, slipped her pack and quiver down off her shoulders, laid the pack down, put the quiver back on, adjusted everything to her satisfaction, and with another head bob, slipped off into the woods. She moved very silently, Boromir noted. The wood seemed quiet indeed when she departed.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The sun climbed higher in the sky. To pass the time, lunch was eaten while they waited. While he ate, Boromir pondered what had seemed to him merely a logical command decision at the time, and now in retrospect looked more like insanity. _I just sent a **girl** who has been captured and tortured once already by orcs, out alone to spy on a patrol of them! I know that she passed that Ranger test of Faramir's but still…what is **wrong** with me? When Faramir finds out, he'll have a fit! And the Valar only know what Uncle would do! Or Andra, for that matter! _Strangely enough, his father's disapproval didn't factor into his musings particularly, and the Captain-General suspected that was because his use of whichever person had the skills he needed for Gondor's benefit, regardless of the cost to them personally, fell right into line with Denethor's own philosophy.

_What **is** it about the lass, that she breeds chaos wherever she goes? _Faramir, normally the most deliberate and clear-minded of men, had apparently had his reason totally overset during Hethlin's stay among his Rangers-it was the most charitable explanation for his rather feeble effort to deceive his brother. And Boromir could not say that he had fared much better, suffering as he had from cryptic dreams about the wench and from an oddly urgent impulse to aid in her escape from the somewhat straitened future Faramir had proposed for her.

_Perhaps it is simply that we are kindred spirits,_ he mused. Stifled as he felt from time to time by the requirements of his position as Heir and the weight of his father's expectations, he could not help but empathize with Hethlin's desire to live free. But that did not explain his actions this afternoon. That was something else entirely.

He was a soldier and a commander of men, and he believed, a reasonably good judge of young soldiers and their potential. And it was very disconcerting to find himself repeatedly reacting to Hethlin not as a man would to a woman (not that he was much of a man for women in any event), but as a commander would to a young but promising recruit. Indeed, it was all too easy to forget she was a woman at all, and treat her like any green young lad sent to him for training. It was an almost instinctive reaction, but he knew it to be a wrong one, and that he must strive to overcome it.

_Though 'tis a shame, for she has courage and wits enough, I deem, to have eventually become a commander-had she only been a lad! _But he had overheard a little of her speech with Faramir the night before, and spoke to himself sternly now. _She belongs in Anorien, with her mountains and her flowers and her hawks. And if the Valar grant that she gets back here in one piece, **you** are going to see that she makes her way safe home!_

Unbidden, unwelcome, a memory of the dream in all its confusing imagery returned to him then, as well as that idea that had no basis in logic, but was nonetheless adamant in its conviction:

_She needs to stay with your brother._

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

An hour passed. Hidden behind the shrubbery and well shaded from the heat of the day, Gethrin and the others in his escort were nonetheless beginning to mutter, but the Swan Knights seemed content to simply wait upon events.

Then suddenly, as if she were a ghost materializing to pass some message on to the living, Hethlin silently reappeared. Gethrin started and bit back a muffled exclamation. The Dol Amroth contingent and several of the other men were startled as well.

The girl made one of her little head-bobs. "My lord."

"Did you find anything, lad?"

"Aye, my lord." She gestured to the west and south, the way the trail took down to the river. "There's a ravine down there, a good sized one. They're down there."

"How many?"

"I'm not sure. From the size of the ravine, and where their sentries are placed, I don't think it could be more than a hundred. There could be a lot less of them, though. It all depends on how tightly they're packed in there." Hethlin hesitated for a moment, then continued. "I thought, my lord…that you might want to take a look. We could go higher, up on the ridge up there, and I could show you. Then you might be better prepared to decide what you'd like to do. And we'd be upwind as well, at least for now."

"And a little further out of their way?"

"That too, sir." Hethlin ducked her head a little, evading his gaze. Boromir offered her a chunk of bread and dried meat.

"Here. We had lunch while we were waiting for you. Can you eat while we're moving?"

Hethlin shook her head in refusal. "I'll wait till we rest, sir."

"Lead the way then, lad."

"We should go as quiet as we can, my lord," she added hesitantly. Boromir grinned.

"Meaning us lead-footed sorts need to try a bit harder, heh?"

"Yes, sir. And no talking either, sir. I could hear you a way down the trail as I came back."

"I'll bear that in mind." He turned to the others. "You heard the lad. Quiet now."

Her cheeks burning, she did as he had ordered, moving to the head of the party and taking them off of the trail to start up a nearby slope. The day was warming swiftly and there was little wind. A buzz of insects surrounded them and the uphill climb soon robbed the heavily armored men of the wind for much else but panting softly, even had they not been under an order of silence. It took about twenty minutes for them to reach the vantage point, a forested ridge. There was brush enough under the trees to conceal them, and Boromir looked at the girl in approval.

"Have you been this way before, lad?" he asked in a low voice.

"No, my lord. I saw this place when I was trying to cut around the ravine. I thought it might be a good place to watch them from." She took out the spy-glass, trained it down the slope and fiddled with the focus for a moment, then handed it to him and pointed. "Do you see that lightning struck tree, sir? Look a little to the right of it and down. One of the sentries is under there." She took out her water bottle and had a drink while he searched.

"I can't find it…no, wait! There he is! I just saw him move!" The Captain-General passed the spy-glass to Gethrin and then to Esteven, showing each in turn where the sentry was.

"Very well then, where are the others, Hethlin?" The girl put away her water-bottle and took the glass once more. After some searching, where she put the glass to her eye and took it down several times, she seemed to zero in upon something. After watching it for a moment, she handed the glass to the Captain-General.

"That rock outcropping across the valley, sir. Use it as an aiming point, and then go straight down. There's one about half-way up the other side of the ravine, close to another clump of boulders. But you'll have to watch a bit to be sure. He's quieter than the other one."

Boromir did as directed. This search took longer than the other one had, but eventually, the others heard him mutter "Is that a shadow, or an orc…? No, there we go, he moved. Gethrin, Esteven, come here. This one's harder to find." And Boromir did the best he could not to move the spyglass, but to hold it in place for the others. It took a while, but eventually the other two officers were convinced of that sentry's existence as well.

"So they're all spread out in between?" came the Swan Knight's comment after they had all had a look.

Hethlin nodded. "Aye, my lord. I think they're the sentries at either end of the camp. I can show you the ones in between as well, if you like."

"No, I don't think that's necessary," Esteven said a little absently, regarding the ravine, his eyes narrowed against the blaze of the afternoon sun. "You've shown us the bounds of the camp, and that's what we needed. There could be a great many of them down there then." She nodded again.

"Perhaps. Or there could be fewer and they're just spread out a bit," said Gethrin, playing devil's advocate. "They like to fight with each other almost as much as they like to fight with us. If they're from different detachments, their officers might be keeping them apart to keep the bloodshed down."

"That's true as well, though I would think you wouldn't want to get too spread out in enemy territory," the Captain-General said. "Hethlin, how many are usually in a scouting party?" She looked at him slightly askance. The carefully casual tone in which he'd asked the question made her wonder if it were not a test of some sort. After all, there was probably little she could tell Lord Boromir about fighting orcs!

"Sometimes just one or two, sir, like the one Lieutenant Mablung and I ran into. But they can have up to six in a scouting party. I didn't hear of anything larger than that while I was with the Rangers."

"And a patrol?"

"Usually about two dozen to thirty, but it goes up from there."

"How many archers in the patrol?"

"At least a third, sometimes half. I don't know if that holds for the ones you see down around Osgiliath, but they know we have good archers, so they arm themselves to match us."

"'Us?'" His eyes were twinkling.

"Sorry, sir. I meant the Rangers, sir."

"So-you said earlier there could be up to a hundred down there. Is that your final number?"

She eyed the ravine for a long moment before replying, but when she did there was no hesitation, Boromir noted with approval. "Aye, my lord. I do hold with what I said earlier. The patrols the Rangers have been encountering of late have all been a pretty good size-you'll know that yourself, from talking to Captain Faramir. This one's a triple-size patrol, judging from the size of the ravine. Seventy to one hundred orcs."

"Hmmph. And me with my dozen and one archer and four doughty Swan Knights. I'm not sure I like those odds. I should have listened to my brother and let him send some of his men as an escort, as he wished to do, for it's Rangers that are needed here." Boromir looked at the ravine, then up at the sun. "They'll start moving come dusk-we've not that much time." He turned back to the others. "We'll wait here, and keep an eye on them. Hethlin?"

"My lord?"

"I am sorry about your lunch but I need you to find your way back to Henneth-Annûn, and get me some Rangers. Can you do that?"

"Aye, my lord. And never you mind about the lunch-I'll do betterrunning on an empty stomach anyway."

"But how are you going to find your way back, lad?" Esteven interjected curiously. "You _were_ blindfolded, weren't you?"

"Aye, sir. But I can follow our trail back, now I'm not. It should be clear enough."

"Because we tromp through the woods like Mûmak, Esteven," Boromir said with a grin, "And we talk too much as well." He watched, amused, as the girl turned crimson yet again. "I promise we'll be quiet as we wait, Hethlin. Off with you now, and if my brother gives you any trouble tell him you are acting upon my orders."

She gave one of her nervous head-bobs by way of answer, and slid her pack off once more, taking up only the water bottle, and slinging it across her chest. Her bow she took into her hand. Preparations finished, she looked up at the Captain-General a bit shyly, but her voice, when she spoke, though soft, was firm enough.

"Sir, it may be that I will come across a patrol on my way. Shall I send them on to you, and go on to Lord Faramir anyway, or come back with them? How many men do you want?"

Boromir smiled his approval at her quick thinking. "Yes, if you find a patrol, send them on. I'd like to have two dozen Rangers at the least, more if they can be spared. And even if you do find them, I want you to go on back to my brother. He needs to know what is going on. You needn't worry about coming back with the men, lad-just give them directions on where to meet up with us. I don't want you in this battle. We'll find another way to get you home if we must."

Hethlin nodded, expressionless. "Very well, sir, I'll try to get some men back here as soon as I can." She looked down at the ravine. "What will you do if they move, sir?"

"Try to trail them unseen at a distance," Boromir told her, and refrained with some difficulty from laughing out loud at the doubtful look she gave him and his men.

"I'd best hurry, then," she said, and vanished into the brush once more, apparently oblivious to the fact that she'd just insulted Gondor's premier warrior. Or perhaps not…_There is more to that one than meets the eye!_ Boromir thought, chuckling softly, and settled himself down under one of the larger trees to wait, after setting a lookout to watch the orc camp. The girl had chosen well-despite the heat of the day, there was sufficient shade, and an occasionalfaint breeze that helped to cool them despite their armor. With an old campaigner's instincts, Boromir found his eyes closing, and did not fight the urge. There should be more than enough time for a nice nap before the Rangers came.


	10. Chapter 10

Hethlin leapt away from the soldiers and headed down the hill. At first she let gravity carry her downward swiftly. But upon rejoining the original trail, she forced herself to moderate that pace to something slower than her sense of urgency liked. She had a long way to go, and needed enough wind to get her all the way, for she was still not back up to peak physical condition.

As she ran, she thought upon the Captain-General, a man unlike his brother. Boromir possessed neither Faramirs gravity nor that sweetness that lay beneath the Captains reserve, though the sense of duty that drove both men was the same. But strangely enough, it seemed that he understood her nature better than did his brother, who had much more first-hand knowledge of it. Faramir was too invested in trying to keep her safe. Lord Boromir, with an open-mindedness she found astonishing, had fought by her side, found her competent, and as far as he was concerned, that was that. Hethlin was determined not to fail his trust in her.

The trail was easy enough to follow, as she had told Lord Esteven it would be. For a long time she simply backtracked, jogging along with bow at the ready. The afternoon had heated up, and before long the shirt beneath her jerkin was soaked with sweat. When shed covered what she guessed was a couple of miles, she paused to drink a couple of small sips of water, and lifted her head to whistle the Ranger recognition signal. Months of exposure had given her some familiarity with the bird calls they used, and she was a reasonably competent whistler. She waited for a couple of minutes, issued the call once more, and when no response was forthcoming, resumed running once more. A mile further and she did the same again, then another mile. The last time she was answered.

Rangers materialized out of the woods around her. This patrol was led by one of the older men, aptly named Feredir, for any hunting forays that included him were usually successful. He cocked a graying brow at her in surprise.

"Hethlin, lass! I didn't know you knew the signals! What do you do here? Where is the Captain-General?"

"The Lord Boromir is waiting with his men and the Swan Knights upon the ridge above that big ravine down towards the river," Hethlin answered between gasping breaths. "There is a large orc patrol laired up there, possibly as many as one hundred in number. He sent me to find some Rangers. He said to send any patrols I found on to him and to go back to Henneth-Annû n to report to the Captain."

"Are you sure that was what he wanted?"

"It is what he commanded me to do, sir. And I had best be on my way-the orcs will move when dark falls. I would not want the Captain-General to meet them with only the men he has with him now."

"Valar, no!" Feredir swore. "Very well then, we'll be off. But I don't think there are any other patrols out here close enough to signal, lass. You'd best get back quick to the refuge and tell them there." He gave her a penetrating look. "Can you find your way?"

"I can, sir."

"Are you certain?" He looked thoughtful for a moment, perhaps weighing the merits of sending a man with her versus adding said man to the Captain-General's force. " It is urgent that Lord Faramir be informed of this."

"I've been backtracking our trail sir, and when I get close enough I will know. I can follow the stream up."

Feredir winced. "That's put the fox among the chickens!" There was some murmuring from his men. "Very well then, lass, if that's what Lord Boromir wanted you and us to do, then we'd best be doing it." He motioned his men to move off at the trot, then nodded a farewell to her and joined them. Hethlin took another couple of sips of water, then started to run again, first at a slow jog, then increasing her stride.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Despite her confident words to Feredir, Hethlin felt a moment's panic once he and the other Rangers left. But her father's training held true, and she soon spied signs of her party's earlier passage. After following the signs for a time, the murmuring of the stream came to her ears-she must have been closer than she had thought!

Almost totally winded, she came to the bank of the stream, looked up the faint path that led to Henneth-Annû n and grimaced. Despite her relief at having found the way, she was crestfallen, for the path was all up hill from this point and most of it steeply up hill. But there was no help for it, the Captain needed to know what had happened to his brother. She sucked in two or three deep breaths, then started upward.

Her thighs were trembling and burning and she was staggering from exhaustion when she heard the call from the outer sentry ring. Stopping in her tracks, she feared that she would not be able to make the call and would be shot for all her pains, but a moment's rest and a hasty drink from the water bottle wet her mouth enough and gave her enough wind that she was able to issue a passable response. She was unable to run when she started moving again, but a swift walking pace covered ground swiftly enough, and before long she heard the inner ring challenge. That answered, soon she found herself by the Forbidden Pool, then climbing the path to the refuge itself.

Her shaky legs required her to lean upon the wall as she made her way down the carven stair. She met no one as she did so, and entered unchallenged into the main chamber.

But once she was there, all activity and conversation ceased, the men looking up at her in astonishment.

Mablung, hearing the sudden quiet, came out from behind the alcove curtain. Shock and dismay chased each other across his face when he spied her.

"Hethlin, lass, whatever are you doing here?"

"Message for the Captain from the Captain-General, sir," she panted. The Rangers began murmuring among themselves.

"Lord Boromir sent you back? Why?"

"Because I was the easiest spared, and I knew the way. He needs all the fighters he has."

"You'd best come see the Captain then," came the terse reply, and Mablung moved forward to take her elbow.

Grateful for the support, she did not fight him, but allowed the lieutenant to lead her back to the alcove and within. There she found Faramir, shirtless and bootless in the summer heat, reclining upon his bed in his breeches, propped carefully up on one elbow on some pillows, reading a book by candlelight.

He looked up and saw her and froze. The weary yet peaceful expression he'd had upon his face at her entrance changed into something totally impassive and impenetrable. His grey eyes grew chill, and even though she had Lord Boromir's backing, Hethlin found herself giving back a step at the look on his face. Or she would have, had Mablung not been standing behind her.

"Hethlin, _what _are you doing here?"

"Your brother sent me, my lord," she managed to stammer out. "He needs Rangers! There are orcs, a lot of orcs, down in that large ravine near the river and we nearly stumbled across them on our way down."

"Valar! I _told _him he needed an escort!" Faramir started to push himself up with his usual swiftness, but pain obviously stitched his side, for he sucked in a loud breath and his brow furrowed. Moderating his movements, he righted himself and looked up at her.

"Report, Hethlin!"

Concern had replaced the cold anger upon his face, and relieved, Hethlin launched breathlessly into her tale. When she had done, captain and lieutenant looked at each other.

"Take them all, Mablung, everyone here save for the sentries, and do it as of five minutes ago!" Faramir commanded. Mablung moved out into the cavern and started giving orders. There was the sound of many men standing up from the tables and moving about the chamber. Questions were being asked and more orders were given, then many feet moved quickly up the stairwell. Eventually the clamor faded, leaving only the muted roar of the waterfall in the outer chamber and Hethlin's hoarse panting.

"Hethlin, how did you find your way back here?" Faramir asked when they had gone. "You were blindfolded. Did Boromir remove it for some reason?"

"Nay my lord, he did not take it off until we were a couple of miles down the trail. But your brother and his men and the Swan Knights are heavy-footed. It was not difficult to backtrack them to the stream, and from there to make my way here."

Faramir did not seem pleased at her cleverness. "What am I supposed to do with you _now_? Hethlin, shortly after I took command here, I had to _hang_ a man who found his way to the Pool! My father commands that this refuge be kept secret!"

"I do not think your men would like it if you were to hang me," the girl said, her expression guarded, as she dried her sweaty face with her shirt sleeve.

The Ranger Captain sighed and scrubbed his own face with his hands. "You are right about that. As it is an order I could not give in good conscience to anyone else, I would have to do it myself. And I can't do it myself. So you need not fear hanging." He looked at her flushed face and relented slightly. "Did you run _all_ the way back here?"

"Almost all of it, my lord."

"After that hike? You must be exhausted! It is stuffy in here, let us go out to the larger chamber." He found his boots, which were on the floor by the bed, and pulled them on very carefully with some repressed wincing, then reached for his shirt, which was draped over a chair by the bed.

"Let me help you, my lord," Hethlin said, and held it spread over his head as she had seen Mablung do, so he could put his arms up into the sleeves without jarring his side overmuch.

"Thank you." He got to his feet with a tiny, muffled grunt and she followed him through the curtain to the outer chamber, which was indeed much cooler because of the circulation of air down the stair and the presence of the waterfall. Faramir went to the cider casks, found a couple of tankards, filled them from one of the casks and carried them over to a table, where he seated himself.

"Walk about if you need to cool down, Hethlin, or sit if you prefer."

She chose to walk a few circuits of the chamber, wending her way through tables and around boxes until her breathing evened out, the sweat upon her cooled and her legs felt leaden instead of rubbery. It was odd to see the chamber so empty, there were usually at least one or two Rangers about. The Ranger Captain watched her silently, sipping his cider until she joined him. Then he spoke.

"Let me see if I understand fully what you told me. You sensed something wrong and asked my brother to let you scout ahead. Knowing that there might be orcs about, he actually agreed to send a young woman who had been captured and tortured by orcs once before to spy on them while he and his men waited safely behind?"

"It is not so bad as it sounds, my lord. He did not know if the orcs were really there or not. He only had my feeling of wrongness to go upon."

"Even so, if there was the slightest chance"

"My lord, I was the closest thing to a Ranger he had! I can move silently, his men cannot. And though I don't know much about them, I don't think the Swan Knights are very good at sneaking around. At least they don't look like they would be-too shiny."

The corner of Faramir's mouth actually twitched upward for a moment, a most welcome sight. "No, I've never heard that sneaking was a Swan Knight talent." His eyes locked upon hers. "You did find the orcs, and without being seen?"

"I did, sir. I scouted around the perimeter and found the boundaries of the camp. Then I returned to the Captain-General and the others. He decided that he needed help, and sent me back to you. He said that he didn't want me in the battle, and that he would find another way to get me home."

"Well at least his sense hasn't completely deserted him! Though surely he must have realized that your knowing the location of Henneth-Annû n would change things."

"I don't see how it does, sir."

"Hethlin, we take great pains to see that this place is not discovered! For instance, one of our standing orders is that if one of the Rangers is taken by the Enemy and there is no hope of rescue, then we shoot them ourselves so that our location may not be achieved by torture."

Hethlin pondered this for a moment. "You are afraid that if I leave knowing where you are, and the orcs come back again to my farm, that I will betray you?"

Faramir nodded. "I know that it is not very likely, I think it was only the foulest chance that they penetrated so far into Anorien, but I should not like to risk it. I would prefer that you agree to go to my uncle's home, where you might be protected and our secret along with you."

"I do not wish to be your uncle's servant, sir."

"So you have said. But surely you see that you have no other choice now?" The Ranger Captain's tone was reasonable enough, but Hethlin could see the line between his brows that denoted worry or frustration.

"Captain, what happens to the Rangers who are injured too badly to continue to fight? Or the older ones who have survived and done their time? Do you kill them too, to keep your secret?"

"Of course not!" Faramir said, affronted. "They are sent home in all honor-" He stopped, giving her an appreciative look.

"You argue well, Hethlin. There are in fact others in Gondor who know our location. But they are living in parts of Gondor that are not so dangerous as Anorien." He shifted uncomfortably upon the bench for a moment before speaking again in a reasonable tone. "I have no problem with letting you go to Lossarnach or Morthond or Dol Amroth or any place in Gondor that is more settled than Anorien."

"I do not have land in those places, or kin. I would just be a stranger, an extra mouth to feed. How would I earn my living?"

"You are a strong, stout girl, Hethlin. I am sure you could find some sort of employment."

Hethlin grimaced. "I have seen that sort of employment. One of my father's friends had a sister who never married. She was this wretched mouse of a thing, who spent all her days taking care of her brother's children and helping his wife with the house, with never a thing to call her own." She looked at Faramir earnestly. "There is another way, Captain. Since I hold Ranger secrets in my keeping, wouldn't it just be easiest if I become a Ranger?"

The Ranger Captain shook his head. "Despite what your father may have said about Northern customs, in Gondor our women do not fight."

The girl's heavy brows drew down, and her mouth tightened. "Oh, _really_?" She got to her feet and went, to his puzzlement, to one of the washstands left ready for the men. He watched as she washed her face and hands, dried them, then moved stiffly into the alcove. After a few moments she reappeared, carrying one of his books, a slim volume bound in black, in her hand. Rejoining him at the table, she opened it and leafed through it, her eyes scanning each page near as swiftly as he did himself.

"Where is it now, I know I read it here" she muttered to herself, then said, "Ah! Here it is!" Pausing to give Faramir a triumphant look, she turned her eyes back to the page and began to read aloud. "But the Dunlanders were cunning, and they laid their trap well, and they set upon Duiloth and his men as they came back over the high pass and slew them all. When word was brought to the lady Eirien of what had befallen her lord, she took up her own bow and summoned all of the men of Morthond, and they went in force over the mountains and down into the Dunlendish lands, and there they did such destruction that the Dunlanders would not move against them for more than a generation. The Lady Eirien ruled with sword and bow until her young sons were grown to lordship, and for years after, the men of Morthond would go into battle with daisies in their caps in honor of their fighting lady."

Hethlin closed the book gently, and folded her hands over it. "_Morthond Chronicles, Volume Four. _Did you not say, Captain, that you did not have very many books here?"

"I did."

"And if I could find a lady of Gondor who fought in your few books here, do you not think there are probably many others in those big libraries you told me of-the City Archives, or your father's library or the one at Dol Amroth?"

"I suppose that is possible, yes," Faramir was forced to concede. "But I think you would find, Hethlin, that most of those women fought because they had to, not because they truly wanted to."

Hethlin pulled open the throat of her shirt, so that the red weals over her breastbone could be seen. "Captain, if it were still possible for me to be a normal woman, and to have a family and children, I might be willing to do as you ask. But you know what I look like now. What man would have me, and why would I ever want to be bedded by anyone? I can be a servant drudging for the rest of my life somewhere, in your uncle's house or some other place. Or I can go back to my farm and work to bring it back and hope that the orcs don't come again to burn it. Or-" and here her voice became very solemn, "-I can _fight _and maybe protect some families from having happen to them what happened to mine. I _am _a Ranger, sir, my father brought me up to it. Your own men know it-they tested me and told you so. The Captain-General knows it-he trusted me to act as a Ranger. Why won't you let me do what I know how to do? If I were a boy who had suffered as I have, who had my skills and wanted to join you, would you even question me?" She did not give him a chance to answer, but hurried on. "No, you'd swear me in on the spot! I've heard the men talk. It's not enough to be a good archer, and you lose a lot of men who come up here in their first fight, because it's not the same as being a soldier in the open. I've already had my first fight, sir, and I survived it."

Faramir studied her pensively. "You do appear to have an answer for all of my arguments. What about this one? I do not wish to see you killed or maimed. It goes against everything I was brought up to believe is right."

Hethlin sighed, took up her tankard and took a drink, then set it down, folding her hands about it. "I do not have an answer for that one, sir. But I know that you grieve for _all_ of your men who are wounded or killed, and that you are careful of their lives. That is good enough for me. Would it truly be so much worse for you?"

"I have always in all of this only wanted to keep you safe."

"And you know, Captain, better than anyone in Gondor, I think, that there is no safety. I could die in a month of a fever. Or in five or ten years when He-" and she gestured vaguely up hill in the direction of Mordor "-moves on Gondor at last. You saved my life, 'tis true, but what were you saving it _for_? Please let me spend it in a way that means something."

There was a long silence while Faramir studied the depths of his cup. "Again, you argue most cogently, Hethlin."

"'Cogently'? What's that? Is it good?" the girl looked almost alarmed, and the Ranger Captain to his surprise found himself laughing.

"Yes, it is good. It is very good! It means that your arguments are sound and to the point." He sighed and sobered. "For my part, you have convinced me." He forestalled her jubilant exclamation with an upraised hand. "But there are difficulties involved with allowing a woman to serve with so many men. I am sure that you can see that."

"Sir, there is not a man in the Rangers that I am afraid of. They none of them look upon me that way. Why is it that I trust them more than you do?"

Faramir did not answer that question. "I will speak to the men upon your behalf, Hethlin. I must know that there is no doubt that they wish to serve with you. If enough of them have doubts, I will not take you as a Ranger-I will find a way to get you back to your farm instead. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Captain."

"I know that you are tired after that long run. Your pack is with Boromir still, is it not?" She nodded. "Then why don't you use my washstand and borrow some of my clothes and get some rest in your old place? Take one of the spare bedrolls. It will be some time before the others return."

"What will you do, sir? I don't mean to turn you out of your room."

"You won't. I'll come back in when you give the word that you are done washing up. In the meantime-" he reached across the table and slid the _Chronicles of Morthond_ over to his side. "I think I'd better give this a look and make sure it holds no more surprises!"

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Hethlin slept the remainder of the afternoon away, woke in the early evening and took supper with Faramir and the men of the patrols who had come back in. He had apparently spoken to them about her while she slept, for there were many who wished to speak with her. To someone who had only recently begun to speak again, such attention from so many different men, some of whom she knew only by name, was daunting. But she tried to answer all the questions as completely and emotionlessly as possible, including the inevitable requests for details about what had happened to her family and her experiences with the orcs. She knew that she was being judged and did not want to appear womanish or weak. Emotional exhaustion compounding the physical, she found it easy enough to go back to sleep later that evening despite her long nap earlier. But she was restless in the night, with nightmares about what had befallen her family and herself, and Faramir finally woke her in the early morning before dawn.

"You were crying out," he said, holding her hands by the wrists. "Bad dreams?" She nodded, and when he was sure she was awake, he released her.

"You were flailing about, so I thought I'd best be careful."

Appalled, she sat up. "I am sorry, Captain! Did I wake you?"

"Not until just now. I've been sleeping like the proverbial log."

"'Tis the wound," the girl said sagely. "But the rest is the best thing for it."

"No doubt," he agreed; then added, "I am sorry to have stirred all of that up for you, Hethlin."

She ran her fingers through her short black hair. "They have a right to know. I want them to trust me. What time is it?"

"A little before dawn. Come and get some breakfast. I will warn you-there will be more who wish to speak with you today, when Mablung and the others return. Can you face that?"

A frown, then a resolute nod. "Yes, Captain, I will be fine. Shall I work on the fletching box today? It's getting full."

"If you like. Or rest if you'd rather. That was more exercise yesterday than I think you were ready for."

"I feel fine, sir." Faramir realized that under the circumstances the girl was hardly going to admit to a weakness of any sort, so he merely nodded and left to get his own breakfast so that she could wash and dress in privacy.

At mid-morning, Mablung, Feredir and most of the Rangers sent to Boromir returned to Henneth-Annû n, minus a contingent tasked with escorting him the rest of the way to Osgiliath. They were triumphant, with reports of a successful battle with only a few minor wounds.

"We hot-footed it down there and caught the orcs before they started moving, Captain," Mablung reported to Faramir over an early lunch. "Actually, I think we caught them before they were truly awake. Shot that ravine full of arrows, and when the ones that were left tried to break out, they found the Captain-General, his men and those Swan Knights waiting for them. Talk about a meat-grinder! Lord Boromir was in fine fettle, as were his men. They'd apparently had a restful little nap while waiting for us to come up. As for the Swannies-turns out they're as deadly afoot as a-horse. Surprised me a bit, that did."

Faramir smiled. "I don't see why it would, Mablung-you've met my Uncle Andrahar. Not to mention my uncle the Prince."

"Only that one time, when you took me with you to the Prince's house. Never to fight with. I guess all those stories are true."

"Believe me, they are."

Mablung nodded acknowledgement. "Anyway, the Captain-General was pleased as punch at how things turned out and had lots of good words for the men, as is his way. Sent some words for you as well," and the lieutenant took a somewhat disreputable and folded up piece of parchment out of his pouch and handed it to Faramir.

Faramir did not open the letter immediately, but turned it over and over, his fingers caressing the seal. "Mablung, is the tale Hethlin told true? Were there as many orcs as she thought there were?"

"Yes, Captain, she called the number almost exactly-she's been listening to us talk, that much is certain. It was a good thing she was there and that the Lord Boromir had the sense to listen to her. The Captain-General, begging your pardon, doesn't know the forest. He could have stumbled right over them and thenI wouldn't have given much for his chances, not with those numbers, even as good a fighter as he is."

"Soit would seem that I now owe Hethlin for my brother's life as well as yours. This is getting to be a habit of hers."

Mablung gave his captain an interrogative look as he chewed a bite and swallowed. "Is it true, what the sentries were saying when we came in? That you're going to ask a place for her here?"

"I have little choice, thanks to Boromir sending her back here! She knows the way to the refuge, and she refuses to take service with my uncle, or any other place in Gondor where she might be safe. But I told her that if enough of the men had doubts about her, I would take my chances and send her back to her farm."

The lieutenant frowned. "Exactly what is 'enough', sir? I don't think there's a Ranger here who doesn't have someone less than thrilled with them in the Company. Are you thinking a simple majority?"

"I'm thinking more than a simple majority, Mablung. At least two thirds. Hethlin is unprecedented, and I need to know that there are no overwhelming objections before I agree to swear her in. We will all have to make some allowances to keep her here, not the least of which is that we will all have to be silent about her sex. We may even have to lie. I won't force anyone to do that who is not comfortable with it."

"I guess I see your point. Do you want me to talk to this lot, or are you going to do it?"

"Oh, I will do it. It's the first useful thing I've been able to do in days! I'll address them in a few minutes. We'll bring all the patrols in, convene tonight, and make a decision then. That should give everyone time to talk the matter over."

"Very well, sir." Having finished his meal, the lieutenant stood and gathered his plates. "I'll just wash these up and give you some time to read your letter. Then you'd best let me have a look at that wound. It's not been dressed since yesterday, and I'd not want your brother to think I was neglecting you."

"You need have no fear of that, Mablung. Boromir knows that I am well cared for!"

Mablung nodded and moved away, and the Ranger Captain turned to his letter, which had been written, from the looks of things, upon the back of a requisition form. It was properly sealed with the Captain-General's sigil, however, which meant that Boromir's lieutenant had not been caught completely by surprise. He opened it to find his brother's handwriting scrawling a bit unevenly across the page-written, perhaps, using a shield or rock for a table. Boromir did not carry books with him as a rule.

_Faramir-_

_Your men performed admirably as ever. I have told them so, but please tell them again. Mablung is a jewel, and I would be tempted to woo him away from you did I think that he could be wooed and did I not believe that he is best placed exactly where he is._

_As regards Hethlin-upon reflection I realize that I may have put you in a bit of a spot with my actions, but I will not apologize. I needed all my warriors with me and Hethlin was the one who could return swiftest to Henneth-Annû n. Based upon the outcome of the day's events, my choice was the right one. I will of course back any decision you make as regards Hethlin's disposition, but if you want my opinion on the matter, it is this-you need more Rangers. Hethlin looks to become a good Ranger, and I speak as a man who has known more than a few of them. Take what the Valar send._

_Your loving brother,_

_Boromir_

_Well, that is clear enough! _Faramir thought, though he was neither surprised nor dismayed. From the moment the Captain-General had met Hethlin, Boromir had been firmly in her camp for some reason. Which was surprising, for as a rule he did not have much use for women outside of their late mother, their late aunt and their cousin Lothiriel. But if Faramir intended to make the girl a Ranger, the knowledge that his supreme commander approved and would not inform upon him certainly made things easier. He did not like to think about what his father would think or assume upon finding out that he had a woman in his company. His uncle Imrahil would not believe any prurient rumors, but the Prince would probably also have some pithy, pointed words to say about putting a woman in danger-Imrahil was chivalrous in the extreme.

Re-folding his brother's letter, he tucked it in his sleeve to put with Boromir's other letters later, and looked about the room at his men moving to and fro in their usual routine, the picture of contented industry. Would taking Hethlin as a true Ranger change this, when having her about as a recovering captive had not? He did not know. Her sleep might have been restless the night before, but Faramir had slept deep and dreamlessly, with nary a whisper from the dreaming gift he had inherited from his Dol Amroth mother to trouble his rest or offer any guidance. Faramir glanced towards the waterfall, watching the sun play upon it for a few moments, but there was no glinting flash of vision, not that he expected any. He had never been able to summon the gift to heel at his whim-to the best of his knowledge even Imrahil, who possessed it in much greater strength and had actually had Elven training, could not do so either.

_I will let the men decide, _he concluded, and rose up to speak to those who had just returned.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

With the outgoing patrols canceled, as incoming ones arrived the refuge began to fill up. As the day drew on, some of the Rangers chose to rest outside under the trees because of the closeness in the cavern. In the winter, the close-packed warmth of bodies would be welcome, but in the heat of August it was not. The waterfall did much to cool the cave, but it would become stuffy if many men were within during the midday heat.

Hethlin stayed in the cavern during the day, busying herself first with the fletching box, then with such other tasks as Mablung set for her. Throughout the day, more Rangers came to her with questions, and as before, she endeavored to answer as completely as possible. As the afternoon wore on towards dinner time, Faramir found her and took her outside to talk to the men who were going to stand sentry during dinner and the first part of the night. He then dismissed her back to the cavern and remained to have private speech with them.

Every trestle and bench the refuge possessed were set up that evening, and when the Standing Silence came, they were all completely filled. Hethlin sat at Faramir's left hand, while Mablung sat on his right. She found that she could eat little because of nerves, but endeavored to do so anyway. Faramir had a good appetite, and he addressed himself to his dinner, refusing to speak of the matter until after the meal was finished. Mablung also managed to eat, giving Hethlin some encouraging smiles as he did so.

When it looked as if all present had eaten their fill, and the hum of conversation in the cavern was beginning to rise, Faramir stood, tapping his silver goblet with his knife.

"It is rare that we are all brought here together and I am glad that I am able to do so for peaceful reasons, rather than for some major engagement. You have all been gathered here tonight to discuss the admission of a new Ranger to our company." He paused for a moment to take a drink from his goblet, then set it down and continued.

"Ordinarily, as you know, you would not be consulted on such matters. Such decisions are the province of the commander and his staff, and I have no reservations about our ability to make them, nor do I feel that it is anyone's right to question our decisions. This case, however, is extraordinary, given that it is a young woman who wishes to join us. You all know Hethlin, and you have spent many months in her company as she found her way back to health."

"Yesterday, on the way to Osgiliath, my brother encountered a large patrol of orcs. He sent Hethlin back here with a message for me, requesting reinforcements. She was able to back trail the track his party had left in the morning, so she now knows the location of the refuge. She has expressed the wish to become a Ranger upon more than one occasion, and because of the events of yesterday, I am willing to consider the idea. But I will not do it if many of you object. Subterfuge would be required if she were to join us, and I would never insist that any of you do anything which you feel dishonorable." His eyes scanned the room. "I will open discussion of the matter by letting Angrim and those who gave Hethlin the Ranger candidate test to speak of their findings. Then the rest of you may ask questions or state your opinions."

Faramir sat back down and Angrim and the Rangers who had tested Hethlin stood and told of the trial they had given her and her success in all aspects. When they had finished and seated themselves, there were a few moments of silence, then Feredir stood, his seamed face grave. "Hethlin, lass, we've all of us talked to you in the last day, and given what happened to your family I can understand why you wish to join us, but this is a deadly business, lass. Have you no kin here to take you in?"

Hethlin stood in her turn, and shook her head. "No, sir. My father and mother were both from Arnor. I have no kin in Gondor." There was some murmuring at that, for it was something that not all present knew.

"You've a home with my sister and her man, if you wish it," Feredir offered. "There is no need to go to war, lass-any number of us would be happy to give you a place."

Other Rangers chimed in with similar offers. Startled, Hethlin looked around at them, then at Faramir, who merely gestured with an open hand. _You're on your own here, _he seemed to say. So after a moment she spoke, hesitantly at first.

"You are all very kind, you have always been so to me and it is very generous, what you have offered to me. But I need my own place, either here among the Rangers or on my farm. I do not wish to be beholden to anyone, no matter how kind they may be."

More murmurs arose, but they were murmurs of approval and agreement. Most of the Rangers in Faramirs company were descendents of folk who had lived in Ithilien before the Enemy drove them out, and as such were an independent-minded, prideful and stubborn lot. Hethlins reasoning was all too understandable to them.

"Captain, if we do agree to let Hethlin join the company, how will things be arranged?" The questioner was Caladir, one of the younger men. "Living arrangements, I mean."

"I think that for now, we will continue as we have begun," Faramir answered."Hethlin will remain in the alcove. It is the best way to give her some needed privacy." Nods all around, but no scurrilous remarks or jokes. Hethlin glanced around at the Rangers, ducked her head and smiled a little. The men obviously shared her faith in Faramirs virtue.

"And she begins just like any new Ranger, sir? As regards training and such?" That was Damrod.

"Indeed, Damrod. In fact, should it be agreed that she join us, she may go out with your patrols since you have brought the question up."

"I have no problem with that," Damrod said, giving Hethlin a smile. She smiled bashfully back.

"Does anyone else have a question or concern, before we put this to a vote?"

Angrim rose. Silence fell, for as the Ranger who had been longest with the company, he commanded respect. He looked about the room for a long moment, and Hethlin wondered if he were going to object to her presence, particularly when his unsmiling glance crossed hers.

"I deplore the times we live in, that have brought us to this, he said, that we could even consider allowing a woman to fight. It is just another sign of how low the Enemy has brought us." Another long pause as every eye watched him, broken only by the song of the waterfall. "Hethlin once told me that she had more right to fight than any of us here, and I disagreed with her about that, saying that she did not know the stories of every man here. But I also told her that she had _as much right _to fight as any of us, and I hold to what I said. I have no objection."

His approval seemed to settle the matter, for no one else rose, save for Faramir, who tapped knife to goblet once again.

"Does no one else wish to speak?" No one answered. "Then it is time to put this matter to a vote of the Company. All who _do not _object to Hethlin of Anorien becoming a member of the Company, please rise."

With much scraping of wood against stone, the Rangers rose. There was a hole here or there where a man remained sitting, and Hethlin could not see who had done so, but the vast majority of them were upon their feet.

"Looks like more than two thirds to me, Captain," Mablung murmured to his commander. Faramir nodded, and spoke.

"As the majority of the Company have no objection, you are accepted as a Ranger of Ithilien, Hethlin of Anorien. Are you prepared to swear the oath?"

Hethlin swallowed hard. "I am, Captain."

"And have you a sword upon which you can swear?"

Hethlin reached to her side, where her fathers sword was belted.

"I do, sir."

Faramir stepped away from the table, into the open space at one side of it where they might be more easily seen.

"Then come before me, and kneel."

Hethlin did so, sternly willing her knees not to shake.

"Give me your blade."

She drew the sword, somewhat awkwardly since she was kneeling, and presented it across her open palms to Faramir, who laid his own hands over hers.

"If you are truly resolved on this, Hethlin of Anorien, then swear the oath."

Mablung had taught her the words that very afternoon, and Hethlin spoke slowly, lest she mar them with haste, her eyes lifted to the man who had saved her life.

"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Hethlin daughter of Halaran of the House of the Eagle."

_I am **yours**, Captain, unto death and beyond,_ she thought, looking straight into his eyes, knowing to whom it was she was truly swearing her oath.

Perhaps Faramir sensed something of that thought, for he smiled gently as he spoke in his turn.

"And this do I hear, Faramir son of Denethor Lord of Gondor, Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance. He lifted his hands from atop the sword and moved them to grip hers beneath the blade, pulling her upwards. Rise, Ranger Hethlin."

The cavern erupted in cheers, and Rangers surged forward to congratulate their newest comrade. Predictably, Mablung got there first, and Hethlin gave him a shaky grin.

"Congratulations, Hethlin," he said, squeezing her arm in a warriors clasp. Then, looking to his lord, he suggested, "Perhaps we might broach a cask, Captain? Its been a good day after all, what with the victory over those orcs and a new Ranger."

The Ranger Captain was pensive again as he looked upon his newest recruit, but there was also a hint of a smile in his eyes.

"Yes, Mablung, I think a bit of a celebration would not go amiss."


	11. Epilogue

August 3016-Boromir swore. He swore because of the sweat trickling into his eyes from beneath his helm, he swore because of the glare of the pitiless sun beating down upon the valley below him and into his eyes, but mostly he swore because of the advancing column of Haradrim that were wreaking havoc upon his men down in the valley with a giant _Mûmak _that advanced before them. The beast was trampling any who got in his way while the archers in the war-tower on his back rained arrows down upon their foes. He swore with much violence and great imagination, and it was not until he paused to draw breath that he remembered who was up on this vantage point with him-his aide, Gethrin and a couple of his captains, who were more than used to his tirades. But there were also two Rangers present with horses from Cair Andros to act as couriers to his brother Faramir, who was across the valley under the cover of the forest, harrying the Haradrim from the left flank. They probably never heard anything of the like from his grave, courteous younger brother, so he gave them an apologetic grin.

"Sorry, Ranger Lorend." The older of the two, sharp-featured and with lighter hair than was usual among Gondor's soldiers, grinned right back.

"That's all right, my lord. It's not every day you get to see a master of profanity in action."

Boromir turned his attention to the other Ranger, the one he would have never cursed in front of had he been thinking, for Hethlin was a woman, though that fact was unknown outside of the Rangers. Certainly she passed easily enough for a lad-broader shouldered than most women, flat of chest and with a husky voice that he actually rather liked.

"My apologies, Ranger Hethlin."

Though she was a little pink in the face, she met his gaze straightly. "'Tis all right, my lord. Captain Faramir says that I should try to learn new words every day." Gethrin and the other captains chuckled at that, though Boromir shot them a warning glare.

"I don't think those were the words he was thinking you should learn. In fact, I think you should try to forget them."

"'Tis all right, my lord, truly it is," she repeated, and ducking her head, set to checking her horse's girth.

There was a sizeable ring of empty space around the animal, which had to be the meanest, ugliest creature ever to wear an army saddle blanket. Faramir had written to Boromir some months back about how the Rangers had come to rescue what looked to be a misbegotten, vile-tempered, uncut scrub of a Dunlender hill horse and had foisted it off on the garrison at Cair Andros. The tale had been an amusing one and had lightened his mood at a time when it really needed lightening. The horse, named Arcag, had been pressed into service and had proven to be a courier horse of iron endurance, as well as serving as a useful punitive measure for Cair Andros's miscreants, for the roughness of its gaits was as legendary as its foul temper.

Hethlin, who had ridden horses on her Anorien farm almost since she could walk, actually liked the vicious creature, and was one of the few who could do anything with it. Having fastened her girth, she now stood stroking its neck with one hand-while keeping the other firmly fastened upon the bit, for Arcag bit as well as kicked.

Boromir turned his attention back to the battle and swore again. "Valar, I _hate_ those things!" The _Mûmak _was plowing through a company of his men, leaving wreckage in its wake.

"Can the Rangers not deal with it?" Gethrin asked, training his spyglass upon the scene.

Frustration was apparent in his voice, and the two Rangers cast looks in his direction.

"Faramir is doing just as he ought," the Captain-General said in a tone that brooked no argument. "He is targeting the archers in the tower and the drivers. We don't need that thing running mad because it's wounded. His men have no armor-I won't send them in to close with it. They'll be shot or trampled. And you know horses won't abide _Mûmaks_, so our cavalry is useless. We're just going to have to take our medicine on this one, Gethrin. Give the signal to fall back. Maybe we can trap them further up the valley where the walls close in. I'd have set up there first, if I had thought they would have walked into the trap. Too obvious, but maybe they'll follow us in if they think they have us on the run. We can go up the slopes and hold the high ground. _Mûmakil _don't climb all that well."

But before the aide could signal, one of the other captains, who was also watching with a spy-glass, said, "Sir! The Rangers are advancing! At least some of them are!"

Boromir snatched the glass from Gethrin, trained it on the left flank, and cursed most vehemently once more, for he could see his brother in the small party of archers pressing towards the _Mûmak_.

"He can't abide the lives we're losing. He's going to try to take it down! Ranger Lorend, get down there and tell him we're falling back! NOW!" Lorend leapt upon his horse, wheeled it about and booted it into a canter, heading down the slope behind Boromir and his captains to go around the valley. At the same moment Hethlin leapt onto her horse and kicked him into motion down the _front_ of the slope.

"Ranger, get back here!" Boromir bellowed, but he was disregarded. The girl had bow in hand and was riding down the steep slope guiding her horse with legs and weight alone. _I didn't know she could ride like that!_

"What's that madman doing?" Gethrin asked.

"He's going to try for the _Mûmak_. You pricked his Ranger pride, Gethrin," the Captain-General growled. "But he won't be able to get close enough. And if he survives to make it back up here, I'm going make him regret it."

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

__

Lorend will never make it in time to call the Captain back! was the first thing that leapt into Hethlin's mind when she heard the Captain-General's order. The next thing was a picture of what was happening below, for after a year spent with the Rangers she knew that without having to see it. The Captain would have asked for volunteers for the suicidal mission and of those who had offered, he would have taken the best. Mablung. Anborn. Damrod. Angrim. Feredir. And himself of course. The ones who might possibly be able to do the impossible. The ones the Rangers could not afford to lose.

So when the Captain-General sent Lorend, she found herself in the saddle and riding downhill almost before she knew it, with only one goal in mind. _I have to get there first! I have to take the Mûmak down, before the Captain and the others get trampled!_

But as Arcag leapt nimbly down the hill, she began thinking again, rather than acting upon pure instinct.

She heard the Captain-General shouting behind her, and knew that she was in a lot of trouble for disregarding his order. Also, that what she wanted to do was impossible. Horses could not abide _Mûmak, _that was but one of the many things that made the great monsters so formidable. A horse was fast enough and nimble enough to keep you out of the way of the tusks and the trunk and the feet, so that you might get close enough for an eye shot, which was the only way you could kill a _Mûmak _with an arrow. But horses would not close, and if you went against the _Mûmak _on your own two feet, you were more than likely doomed.

Faramir, she knew, had tried once on Teilyn, his beautiful, Dol Amroth-bred war mare. The Prince bred the finest war-horses in Gondor, but Teilyn, though she had gone closer than most, would not get close enough for Faramir to take his shot. Others had tried, on seasoned war-horses, with the same result. Now she was going to attempt the feat on a wretched scrub stud of no pedigree. Hethlin wouldn't have bet a copper on her chances of success, but she had to try. There was no way she would let her comrades be killed if she could prevent it!

Arcag hit the bottom of the slope and galloped on to more level ground. She rose in her stirrups a little to get off his back and lay low over his neck. They were closing upon one of the companies of footmen, and she cried out a warning so that they would clear her path. They obligingly scattered out of the way, obviously shaken by the presence of the monster. Up ahead, she could see the great grey mountain that was the _Mûmak. _If Arcag cleared the company and still seemed willing, she would ready an arrow.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Boromir watched Hethlin's progress through the spyglass, and pondered a day that had gone totally to ruin. Not only did this battle look to be becoming a rout, but the odds were good that he would not need to hear his brother's chastisement about allowing the Ranger girl to charge the _Mûmak, _because the _Mûmak _was probably going to kill both of them!

He was glad he wasn't riding the stud as he watched it. That jarring gait was obvious even at a distance. But the girl rode calm and quiet on its back. They galloped through one of the scattering companies and were within long bow range of the monster. He was going to have to go down on to the field soon himself and try to stem the confusion, but for now he watched, fascinated. Would the ugly brown horse actually go close enough to do any good?

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Arcag flew through the company and onto a piece of open ground. Then they encountered more men fleeing heedlessly from the huge beast, and twice Hethlin had to draw rein on the stud and slow him to avoid running them over. Arcag pinned his ears back and slung his head when she did so. Over time, she had found that he usually went better if she did not touch his mouth much, for it had been abused by his previous owner. So once they had wended their way through the men, Hethlin dropped rein again, and coaxed him with knee and weight to the left, towards the _Mûmak. _She would not attempt to make him confront the beast by force.

Astonished that he had come so close, for there was nothing but open ground now between them and the _Mûmak _and arrows were beginning to drop around them, she pulled an arrow from her quiver. "Good lad. Good Arcag," she crooned over and over again, almost a chant. Her awareness narrowed and focused itself, on the sweating, pounding horse beneath her, the sun beating down upon her back and head, the feel of the bow and arrow and string in her fingers. And the mammoth bulk before them, drawing ever nearer. They were at mid-range now, and Arcag had still not shied off. The smell of it hit her nostrils, hot in the sun, animal but alien, unlike anything she had ever smelled before. This was the point, she had been told by Faramir, where most people lost the battle with their horses, when the smell hit them. Arcag merely snorted, blowing foam back onto her legs, shook his head-and bored on in.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

"Do you see it, sir! Do you see it!" the captain with the spyglass was shouting.

"I see it, Hathol! That ugly bastard has gone closer than any horse I've ever seen!" _Go, you horrible, lovely horse! Go, girl, go!_

"Oh no, the Ranger's been shot!"

Alarmed, Boromir refocused the spyglass, then sighed in relief. "No, he hasn't. Just ducking behind the neck a bit, to shelter from the arrows. A nice bit of riding, that."

"What's that fellow doing in the Rangers instead of the _cavalry_?"

"Shooting that _Mûmak, _I hope!"

Gethrin, who had only his naked eyes to watch with, asked, "Orders, sir?"

Intent upon the spectacle below, the Captain-General said almost absently, "Hold on the retreat for now, Gethrin. If the Ranger actually takes the _Mûmak _down, then we attack full force. You can pass the word along, but I don't think you'll have to."

"Yes, sir!" Boromir could hear him moving off, but he kept his glass trained on that distant, swift-moving speck, that had incredibly not yet swerved or jibbed or shied. So he saw the moment when Hethlin got finally close enough and stood in her stirrups in the saddle. Saw the bow drawn full back to her ear and the snap of release. Knew in his bones that the shot was perfect, so perfect that he did not even bother to watch the _Mûmak _fall_-_the bellow of the beast and the triumphant cries of his men told him all he needed to know about that.

"Valar!" Captain Hathol shouted. "That's _impossible_!"

"I think I'm in love," Boromir muttered.

"Sir?"

"Nothing."

He kept the glass trained on the girl, and thus he saw the Haradrim arrows hit both her and the horse as the behemoth began to fall. The bow dropped from her hand as she slumped over the saddle, the stud crow-hopping in pain. Then she was enveloped in a wave of Gondorian soldiers rushing forward to engage the Haradrim. He sighed, and hoped the wound was not a mortal one. _Faramir will never forgive me for this. But Hethlin has more than repaid my trust in her with this day's deed._

Closing the glass, he put it back in the case on his belt, and called for his horse. "Hathol!"

"Sir?"

"Get that Ranger and that horse to the healers and see that they're cared for! I'll think of something appropriate for the man, if he lives. I've got a battle to fight." He did not wait to hear Hathol's acknowledgement, for he was already moving, planning in his mind how he wished for the rest of the battle to be waged.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The eye had been surprisingly small for such a large beast, about the size of the bull's eye on a target, and she had been shooting upwards. But Hethlin had known the shot was good the moment the arrow left string, and was already wheeling Arcag away, to the right and out of the path of the beast's fall. It was then that the Haradrims' last, desperately shot arrows found them. She heard Arcag squeal in pain even as something thudded into her left shoulder from behind and fire blossomed from the point of impact. Darkness danced before her eyes, and in desperation she dropped her bow, seizing the stud's ratty mane with her good hand and holding on blindly as he crow-hopped his way through a mass of men crying war "Gondor! Gondor!", heading towards where the _Mûmak _had fallen.

__

I think we've done our fair share today, Arcag and I. Hethlin wanted to be away from this confusing chaos, so unlike the battles under the trees that she was familiar with. She wanted, in fact, to be under the trees, in the shade and away from the cruel sun, some place where she could stop Arcag and see how badly he was hurt. She held onto his mane and squeezed him with her legs and let him chose his own path. He seemed to share her opinion, for before long they had trotted and bucked their way out of the battle, up a slope and into a stand of trees.

There he stopped, head down, blowing, and she slid shakily off his back. When her feet hit the ground, her shoulder flamed anew, and she had to lean against the saddle for a moment until the pain and dizziness subsided. Then she cast her gaze over her mount. There was an arrow sticking out of Arcag's left haunch, but it did not look as if it had penetrated very far. Not wanting him to bite her, she gathered the reins as best she could one-handed and wrapped them awkwardly around the nearest tree, tethering his head close. He slung his head in protest a little, but the reins held.

"Good lad. Brave lad," Hethlin murmured. "Please don't kick me." Standing close to his side, she reached up with her uninjured right hand and closed her fingers around the shaft, yanking it out with a swift motion once she had done so. Arcag squealed, and his foot did lash out despite her entreaties, but it did so directly behind him and she was not in its path. The water bottle upon her saddle was almost full, so she took a drink, then poured some of the water over the wound. Arcag seemed to appreciate that and gave her no further trouble.

Having done what she could to succor her horse, Hethlin looked down into the valley where the battle was raging. She saw no sign of the Rangers, but she was not expecting to-they had been around on the left flank, and she was now on the right. Arcag needed to walk, he was hot, and she needed to rejoin her comrades. And she could not let one of the regular army's healers treat her, for then her secret would become common knowledge.

Surrendering to necessity, with a sigh she untied Arcag and began to walk him slowly along the slope under the trees towards where the Captain-General had had his vantage point, the first leg in her journey around the valley. She picked her way carefully, to avoid stepping in holes or tripping over roots and jarring her shoulder. They had a long way to go, she and Arcag, with neither of them in the best of shape. But there was no help for it but to start.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

The aftermath of the battle-dealing with the disposition of prisoners, care of the wounded, the burial of the Gondorian dead and the burning of the Haradrim, took all of Boromir's attention until sundown and a little past it. The tusks of the _Mûmak _had already been removed and added to the spoils from the vanquished. The bones would be sold to a merchant who specialized in hides and bone and ivory. He would have to wait to claim his merchandise until the carcass had been picked clean by scavengers. Because of the carcass, Boromir intended to break camp the very first thing in the morning, and take his men far up the road. This particular area was going to be unbearable for about a month. Such was always the case when a _Mûmak _was killed in hot weather. They were too big to burn, so they had to be left to the scavengers of the wild.

When he returned to his tent, he found Captain Hathol, who informed him that Hathol had been unable to carry out the order regarding the Ranger. "He would have none of our healers, my lord, just stood there bleeding with that arrow sticking out of his shoulder and said that he only wanted _Rangers_ touching him! I told him it was your order, but he did not listen. Why would he act in such wise? These Rangers get above themselves!" The captain was obviously offended; but Boromir, hearing his account, was relieved. If Hethlin had been on her feet and arguing, the odds were good the wound was not a mortal one.

He sighed. "Hathol, the lad was an orc captive once, and tortured by them. Faramir and his men rescued him and nursed him back to health. He trusts them, and very few others, particularly when he is hurt. I am sorry, I should have remembered that when I gave you the order." _As well as the fact that the girl **cannot** be treated by a Healer outside the Ranger company! Hethlins wits are as quick as her bow!_

"Truly? And after all that, he fights?" Astonishment was writ large on the captain's face.

"_Because _of that, and the deaths of everyone in his family, he fights."

"How old is he?"

Boromir thought for a moment. "He would beeighteen by now."

"Only eighteen? And he made that shot? Valar!" the captain exclaimed, obviously both impressed and appeased. "Are you going to reward him, sir?"

"Obviously. He saved the day. And that horse as well. I noticed the ugly fellow still had his stones-I wonder if I shouldn't find a mare or two for him. Girls with good gaits and better dispositions, of course. It would be handy to have some horses that would face _Mûmakil _down. I'd give a lot to know why he does it and other horses won't."

"If you ask me, he was offended because the _Mûmak _was the only thing on the field uglier than he was!" Hathol declared with a snort.

Boromir laughed. "That's as good an explanation as any!" He then summoned Gethrin, who had some things he needed, and since there were still some more things that needed doing, went in search of the Rangers.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

He found their camp as he had expected, up under the trees and close to a small stream which descended from a spring close by. The two courier horses were tethered under the trees. Arcag was tied on a fairly short rope, but he had a huge pile of freshly cut grass at his feet, which he was tearing into with great enthusiasm. A white bandage was stuck to his flank, and he had been thoroughly groomed. Rangers were gathered around campfires, drinking and eating and discussing the day's events. "Captain-General, sir!" Ranger Lorend hailed him. Other Rangers rose to their feet, murmured greetings, or nodded acknowledgement. A much more casual welcome than he was used to getting from the rest of his troops, but he knew that Faramir was truly the supreme commander here.

Thinking of his brother, Boromir looked about for him. He noticed that the wounded were being cared for in lean-tos and that the camp was exceptionally well organized and tidy to a fault. But Faramir was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is Captain Faramir, Ranger Lorend?"

"He stepped out a little while ago, my lord-said he had something to do. Can I help you?"

Boromir strolled over and handed the Ranger a sack. "The best oats in the camp. For that fellow over there who goes a lot prettier than he looks."

Lorend laid them near the fire. "Thank you, sir. We'll give them to him tomorrow-he's already had enough grain and apples and bread and such today to founder if he gets any more. Though I will say that it's sweetened his temper as much as I've ever seen it sweetened."

"Was he seriously hurt?"

"No, sir, just got struck in the flank. He'll be stiff for a bit, but nothing more."

"And Ranger Hethlin?"

Lorend threw a glance at Gethrin before he answered. "He's well enough, sir. Shot in the shoulder from behind. It hit the shoulder blade and lodged in the muscle, but Lieutenant Mablung got it out. He won't be shooting for a little while, but if it doesn't fester, he'll be fine in a month's time."

"Is he up to receiving visitors?"

"I think so, sir. The lieutenant hasn't given him any poppy yet. Shall I take you to him?"

"Please do."

The Ranger got up from the campfire and led them towards one of the lean-tos. On the way, Boromir asked, "How badly were the Rangers hurt?"

"We're fine, sir." Lorend shrugged a little. "Took some arrow hits and the odd slash here and there, but we didn't lose anyone. When the _Mûmak _went down, Captain Faramir drew back-he and the others never got really close. Then we went back to doing what you'd asked us to do in the first place, picking off the ones on the right flank."

"I'm glad you got off so lightly. The second foot company took the brunt of things-they lost half their men. But it wasn't a bad day all around-it could have been much worse without Ranger Hethlin and that horse."

Lorend nodded. There was a lantern hung in the lean-to, and by its light they could see

Lieutenant Mablung, who was whittling something as he sat beside Hethlin's bedroll. She was laying upon her right side, to spare the shoulder, and there was a book open beside the bed. Mablung was saying something to her in a low voice and she was smiling. Then she heard the approaching footsteps, looked up and her eyes widened. The lieutenant started to stand, and she to push herself up, but Boromir forestalled them both with an upraised hand.

"As you were, gentlemen." Mablung surrendered his place to the Captain-General and Boromir hunkered down beside Hethlin's bedroll, peripherally aware of the shadowy shapes of Rangers rising from their fires and moving to join Lorend outside.

"Are you comfortable, Ranger Hethlin? Is there anything you need?"

"Yes, my lord, and no," she said hesitantly, eyes searching his face. The reason for her unease was revealed the next moment when she asked, "Am I in trouble, sir?"

"In trouble? Oh, you mean that little business about ignoring my order?" He gave her his best Supreme Commander stare, and fancied that he could discern her blush even by lantern light. Relenting after a moment, he grinned and said, "I think, given the way things fell out, that I might be persuaded to overlook your insubordination-just this once." Visibly relieved, she sagged back against her pillows and a little ripple of laughter rose from their audience. He laid a pouch close to her hand. It was of good size, and clinked as it was set down.

"A little bonus for your good work today." She nodded, laying her hand upon the pouch, but her eyes never left his face.

"Thank you, my lord." There was a murmur of approval from the Rangers.

"There is one more thing, Ranger. Gethrin, give it to me," Boromir commanded his aide, and Gethrin handed over his shoulder a long, narrow object swathed in a blanket. "This belonged to the commander of the Haradrim. It's one of the nicest bits of spoils we won today. Everyone thought you should have it."

He removed the covering, and exclamations arose from outside the lean-to, as the closest Rangers got a good look. What he held was a re-curve horse bow, made in a wood as black as pitch, ornamented with golden inlay and fittings. Glossy black leather wrapped the grip. The quiver and bow-case that Gethrin handed over with it were tooled ebon leather. There were no arrows with the quiver-they'd been used up-but it was as handsome a set as anyone could wish, with ornate buckles washed in gold.

"I've heard of these," Mablung said, interested. "but I never thought to see one! It's a Haradrim blackbow, Heth. Scarcer than hen's teeth, so they say. That wood is special, it grows way down south, and it's tough and flexible both. There's horn in that bow too. They make it like the Easterlings make theirs. 'Tis a princely gift, my lord," he said to Boromir. "You might have wanted to keep this one for yourself."

"You've obviously never seen me shoot, Mablung," the Captain-General said with a grin, "on a horse or off of it. It will serve Gondor far better in Hethlin's hands than mine. And he deserves it." He laid the bow on the blanket, and Hethlin's hand moved haltingly to caress the smooth wood.

"'Tis truly beautiful, sir. Thank you." She smiled, her eyes a bit glassy with the wound fever and he nodded, pleased.

"No, the thanks are entirely mine, Ranger Hethlin."

Applause and murmurs of approval rose from the Rangers, while Hethlin admired her prize. "It's got a ring to it, it does," Lorend commented. "Hethlin the Blackbow. Or maybe just Hethlin Blackbow."

There was a parting of the crowd, and Faramir suddenly appeared. He looked weary, as did they all, but he was clean and tidier than most-save for one odd ornament. Boromir stared at it in puzzlement.

"Brother, is there some reason you have a daisy stuck behind your ear?"

"Why yes, Boromir, there is," came the affable reply, but no further explanation was forthcoming. Boromir watched in astonishment as his brother's arrival with that stupid flower did what a sizeable purse of gold and one of the biggest prizes of the field had not-lit the girl's face until she was positively glowing, and laughing as well. The flower was apparently some kind of private joke.

That was significant in and of itself, for Faramir did not joke with people he did not consider friends, and he did not make friends easily. _She needs to stay with your brother_, had been the irresistibly strong impression Boromir had had back at Henneth-Annû n, and he'd thought at the time that perhaps the girl was destined to save Faramir in battle. Now, watching them together as the Ranger Captain admired her new bow and spoke to her of the book she was reading, he wondered if it was not because Faramir had simply needed another friend to help him weather a war he had never wanted to fight. Unlikely that it was that a battered, scarred girl half the Captain's age should become that friend, it seemed to have happened. Despite his earlier objections, Faramir had finally accepted Hethlin, not only as a Ranger, but as one of his friends.

Not one to storm heaven when more mundane means existed to achieve his goals, Boromir nonetheless sent a thought westward. _Valar guard and guide you, Hethlin Blackbow. Be careful, be strong, be smart. Stay **alive** so that you will be there when Faramir needs you!_

Aloud he said, "There's a keg of beer on the way for you Rangers! I thought you might want to toast the hero of the day!" Amidst their cheers, he inclined his head to his brother, the girl and Mablung, and left the Company of Ithilien to their well deserved rest.


End file.
